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FLOWER   O'   THE   ORANGE 


3Bs  Bgncs  Sc  Bgerton  Castle 

THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO 
"IF  YOUTH   BUT  KNEW!" 
THE  SECRET  ORCHARD 
ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD 
THE  STAR-DREAMER 
THE  HOUSE  OF  ROMANCE 
THE  BATH  COMEDY 
INCOMPARABLE   BELLAIRS 
THE  HEART  OF  LADY  ANNE 
"MY  MERRY  ROCKHURST  " 


3B12  Sgerton  Castle 

YOUNG  APRIL 

THE  LIGHT  OF  SCARTHEY 

CONSEQUENCES 

MARSHFIELD  THE  OBSERVER 

LE  ROMAN  DU  PRINCE  OTHON 

THE  JERNINGHAM  LETTERS 

ENGLISH  BOOK-PLATES 

SCHOOLS  AND  MASTERS  OF  FENCE 

ETC. 


FLOWER  0'  THE  ORANGE 

AND   OTHER  TALES 
OF     BYGONE     DAYS 


BY 


AGNES   £ff   EGERTON   CASTLE 

AUTHORS   OF   "  THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO,"   "  ROSE  OF  THE 

WORLD,"   "IF  YOUTH   BUT  KNEW,"   "MY   MERRY 

ROCKHURST,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1908 

AZi  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1908, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  Febraary,  1908. 


NoriDooIi  llrese 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


stack 

Annex 


WE  INSCRIBE  THIS  BOOK 
TO   OUR  FRIEND 

ROYAL  CORTISSOZ 


2227865 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    Flower  o'  the  Orange.     (^The  period  is  the 

I 


early  years  of  the  last  century) 
II.    The  Young  Conspiracy.     {1745)    - 

III.  The  Great  White  Deeps.     {^1749) 

IV.  My  Rapier  and  My  Daughter.     (^1595) 

V.     The    Great    Todescan's    Secret    Thrust 
(^1602)     ....... 


S3 
103 

147 
191 


VI.     Pomona.     (The   period   is    the    early  part  of 

Charles  IPs  reign)  ......     247 

VII.    The    Mirror    of    the    Faithful    Heart. 

(Early  Georgian) 293 


FLOWER   O'   THE   ORANGE 


FLOWER  O'  THE  ORANGE 

Perched  high  upon  the  southernmost  headland  of 
Galloway ;  looking  down  on  the  one  side  sheer  from 
the  lip  of  the  cliff  upon  the  foaming  fringe  of  Luce 
Bay,  and  on  the  other  upon  the  gently-sloping  green 
lands  of  woods  and  fat  meadows,  stands  Eager- 
nesse. 

The  ancestral  home  of  the  Carmichaels  is  one  of 
those  buildings  peculiar  to  Scotland,  which  bear 
the  impress  of  every  period  of  national  history.  Its 
foundations  rest  within  the  forgotten  mounds  of 
camps  once  Pictish,  later  Roman;  the  thick,  tall, 
square  Peel,  noted  landmark  to  all  sailers  into  Sol- 
way  Firth,  still  rises,  but  for  the  ivy  of  its  walls  and  its 
roof  of  more  civilised  contrivance,  much  as  it  did 
while  the  middle  ages  and  subsequent  warlike  cen- 
turies rolled  by. 

Around  this  frowning  pile,  with  the  growth  of 
modern  security,  has  likewise  grown  the  comfort 
of  modern  dwellings.     The   compact  stronghouse 

3 


4  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

has  expanded  into  the  mansion;  the  jealously 
cleared  and  well-watched  approaches  have  drifted 
from  the  warder's  care  to  that  of  the  landscape 
gardener,  have  become  luxuriant  with  tall  timber, 
with  varied  underwood.  Outlying  walls  inclose 
high-tended  gardens,  and  support  exotic  wall  fruit. 
And  now,  old  and  newer  alike,  everything  about 
Eagernesse  has  once  more  assumed  the  mellow- 
ness of  wealthy  age. 

From  the  topmost  platform  of  the  keep  the  view  is 
immense.  When  the  sun  is  sinking,  the  Cumbrian 
ranges  stand  out  purple  against  the  distant  eastern 
skies ;  while  to  the  south,  Man,  an  island  of  amethyst, 
melts  away  in  a  sea  of  grey  silver.  At  the  early  hours, 
when  the  rays  are  still  level  and  cold,  the  heights  of 
the  far  Irish  shore  show  faintly,  steel  blue,  to  the  west. 
And  to  the  north,  away  beyond  the  rich  coast  land, 
but  almost  at  hand,  it  would  seem,  stretch  the  grey 
hills  of  Galloway  in  all  their  Scottish  grimness.  In 
a  fine  light  the  eye,  in  fact,  can  reach  across  the 
marches  of  three  kingdoms.  And  as  he  gazes  over 
the  proud  view,  the  watcher  can  tell  himself  that  in 
the  receding  ages  the  blood  of  the  masters  of  Eager- 
nesse had  flowed  in  the  veins  of  many  a  ruler  of  those 
fair  lands ;  and  that,  in  these  days  of  peace  —  for 
times  will  change  and  men  with  them  —  wealth  and 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  5 

influence  and  wide  connection  yet  maintains  the  name 
of  Carmichael  as  high  in  men's  minds  as  did  their 
strong  deeds  of  yore. 

Many  strange  scenes  have,  in  the  course  of  ages, 
taken  place  under  the  tall  roofs  of  Eagernesse  — 
scenes  of  brutality,  no  doubt,  often  enough,  or  of 
cunning ;  of  triumph  or  tragedy  for  the  race ;  some- 
times of  happiness. 

Not  always  among  the  most  strenuous,  however,  are 
the  scenes  which  prove  the  opening  of  a  new  drama 
in  the  family  fortunes.  In  a  fashion  homely  enough 
began  such  an  one  at  the  close  of  a  boisterous  March 
day  in  the  year  '16  of  the  last  century.  It  was  in  a 
turret-room  midway  up  the  old  Peel  —  once  keeping- 
chamber  of  the  castellans,  now  (in  respect  of  its 
situation,  which  is  well  out  of  the  way  of  modern 
apartments)  devoted  to  nursery  uses. 


Old  Meg,  the  housekeeper,  and  Mrs.  Adams,  the 
grand  English  nurse,  stood  facing  each  other  in  one 
of  those  pauses  which  in  the  heart  of  a  storm  precede 
the  fiercer  outbreak.  Between  them  the  heir  of 
Eagernesse  kept  up  his  persistent  cry :  — 

"Want  Mary-Nan!" 


6  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

The  bellow  that  had  brought  Meg  Drummond 
a-canter  to  the  nursery  had  given  place,  at  sight  of  an 
ally,  to  a  plaintive  wail  —  "a  wail"  (as  she  subse- 
quently remarked)  "that  would  have  melted  a  heart 
of  stone." 

But  the  person  in  authority  stood  firm  alike  against 
genteel  remonstrance  and  infantile  sorrow,  and  after 
the  lull  the  gathering  forces  rushed  into  fresh  colli- 
sion. 

"And,  indeed,  Mistress  Adams,"  old  Meg  was 
saying,  "I'm  no  one  for  interfering,  as  I  think  you'll 
do  me  the  credit  of  conceding,  these  four  weary  years 
that  we've  been  together  at  Eagernesse  —  hoping  I 
ken  my  duty  to  my  master  and  her  auld  leddyship 
who  set  ye  in  your  place  — "  Indescribably  but 
unmistakably  did  Meg  convey  how  ill  she  deemed 
that  place  filled.  "But,  seeing  that  I  nursed  his 
father,  aye,  and  served  his  grandfather  before  him, 
I  canna  stand  by  and  see  harm  done  to  the  bairn. 
It's  no  richt,  Mistress  Adams,  mem,  to  gar  him  greet 
that  gate.  'Tis  not  for  his  health;  ye'll  be  having 
him  sicken,  and  ony  day  his  father  might  be  stepping 
in  upon  us. — Whist,  me  lammie !  we'll  have  her  up 
till  ye  in  a  minute,  so  you'll  be  a  gude  laddie  and  take 
your  suppie  milk!" 

The  sniffs,  loud  and  prolonged,  with  which  the 


Flower  d'  the  Orange  7 

nurse  had  commented  on  the  housekeeper's  discourse, 
now  gave  place  to  grating  accents,  sharply  bitten  oflf, 
as  it  were,  by  lips  that  had  as  much  capacity  for  ten- 
derness in  them  as  a  steel-trap.  A  gaunt,  flat-chested 
woman,  with  long  face,  framed  by  sleek  bands  of 
unnaturally  black  hair,  with  goffered  cap  and  apron 
repellent  in  starchy  whiteness  —  such  was  the  nurse 
whom  Lady  Ishbel  Carmichael  had  selected  for  the 
supreme  charge  of  her  little  grandson. 

Old  Meg,  who  was  of  the  well-cushioned  type  of 
womanhood  herself,  yearning  to  a  child  with  a  kind 
of  melting  greed,  had  very  clear  ideas  as  to  whom 
Eagernesse's  mother  should  have  confided  Eager- 
nesse's  son.  "But  God  forgie  her,"  she  would  say, 
with  a  shake  of  her  white  curls,  "she  canna  forget 
in  the  bairn  the  mither  that  bore  him.  Aye,  he  has 
his  mither's  eyes,  and  the  auld  leddy  could  never  bring 
herself  to  take  him  to  her  bosom.  'But  I'll  do  my 
duty  by  him,'  says  she  to  me." 

The  dowager's  sense  of  duty  had  taken  the  un- 
pleasant form  of  Mrs.  Adams :  a  disciplinarian  of  the 
most  rigid  Christian  character  and  the  highest  testi- 
monials. With  this  worthy,  old  Meg  strove  honestly 
to  keep  on  the  most  polite,  curtseying  terms.  But,  as 
on  the  present  occasion,  not  infrequent  were  the  lapses 
in  which,  warm  heart  getting  the  better  of  decorum, 


8  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

she  was  fain  to  make  a  whirlwind  ascent  into  nursery 
regions  and  to  speak  her  mind  —  efforts  invariably 
marked  by  conspicuous  failure. 

The  steel-trap  now  snapped  out  its  views  on  infant 
education :  — 

"Begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Drummond,  I  must 
again  request  you  not  to  infringe  my  rules  by  visiting 
Master  Carmichael  at  bedtime.  Master  Carmichael 
has  been  very  unruly.  I  have  repeatedly  informed 
him  that  I  cannot  permit  Miss  Mackenzie  to  come 
to  the  nursery  to-night  or  indeed  at  any  other 
tune." 

"Want  Mary-Nan!"  broke  in  Master  Car- 
michael, shaking  the  sides  of  his  cot  with  little  fierce 
hands. 

"I  shall  have  to  chastise  you  a  second  time,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Adams  dispassionately. 

She  approached  him  with  the  bowl  of  hot  milk 
in  one  hand  and  with  the  other  forcibly  turned  the 
curly  head.  There  was  a  struggle,  a  shout,  an  earth- 
quake among  the  bedclothes ;  the  bowl  rolled  in  one 
direction,  most  of  the  milk  ran  streaming  down  Mrs. 
Adams'  aggressive  apron,  and  Master  Carmichael's 
howls  were  triumphant  and  desperate  as  befitted  one 
who  in  victory  had  sealed  his  doom. 

The  nurse  removed  her  apron.     Her  hands  shook 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  9 

a  little,  but  the  grey  face  betrayed  no  emotion. 
Then  she  advanced  upon  the  cot.  Old  Meg,  in  great 
agitation,  interposed  her  stout  form. 

"Nay,  Mistress  Adams,  not  in  my  presence,  mem  ! 
I'll  no  have  a  finger  laid  on  the  blessed  child  the  day. 
Shame  on  ye,  to  call  yourself  a  wumman !  If  he 
had  the  spirits  of  twenty,  ye'd  break  them  all ! 
Whisht,  my  lamb!" 

The  lamb,  wiiYi  the  cunning  of  his  kind,  clung  to 
the  ample  bosom.     "Want  Mary-Nan  !" 

"  Give  me  that  child,  Mrs.  Drummond,"  said  the 
nurse  with  deadly  self-control.  She  laid  her  grasp 
on  the  dimpled  wrist. 

Young  Eagernesse  had  good  lungs ;  he  filled  them 
now  with  a  mighty  breath  and  mightily  expended  it. 

"Hech,  but  ye're  an  awful  wumman !"  cried  the 
flustered  Meg.    The  two  were  struggling  for  the  child. 

The  door  opened.  A  tall  man  strode  into  the 
room  and  stood  looking  at  them.  At  the  sound  of  his 
steps  there  was  dead  silence.  Even  the  babe  ceased 
his  outcry  to  fix  round,  wet  eyes  on  the  stranger. 

"Lord  be  gude  to  us  !     'Tis  Eagernesse  himself !" 

Meg  stared  a  second  or  two  helplessly  at  the  gaunt 
figure  in  the  high  boots,  the  furred  travelling  cloak. 
Eagernesse  !  But,  merciful  heavens,  how  these  four 
years  had  changed  him,  her  bonny  lad  !    How  dour 


lo  Flower  6*  the  Orange 

and  dark  he  looked,  glowering  at  her  from  under 
his  bent  brows ! 

They  had  not  met  since  the  dreadful  night  when 
the  lady  of  Eagernesse,  frail,  false  wife,  had  deserted 
husband  and  babe.  And  here  was  the  wee  creature 
with  a  head  of  curls  sunning  all  over,  just  like  to  hers 

—  the  poor  foolish  young  thing  —  his  eyes,  his 
mother's  own  blue,  and  the  very  mouth  of  her,  parted, 
appealing.  Many  a  time  had  she  looked  at  those 
that  chid  her  with  just  such  a  droop  of  the  lip. 

Mistress  Drummond  had  not  even  sufficient  pres- 
ence of  mind  to  curtsey.  She  hesitated,  helpless, 
still  clutching  the  sweet,  warm  burden.  She  longed 
to  place  it  in  the  father's  arms;  but  courage  failed 
her,  for  she  read  memory  in  that  brooding  gaze. 
And  so,  at  last,  miserably,  she  put  the  child  back  in 
its  cot  and,  still  keeping  cautiously  between  it  and  the 
disciplinarian,  quavered  her  greeting :  — 
"Lord  sakes,  Eagernesse,  and  is  it  yourself?" 
Her  heart  was  sore.     The  master's  home-coming 

—  the  hour  she  had  dreamed  of  night  and  day  through 
the  lonely,  empty  years  —  to  have  it  thus  ! 

Exiled  from  the  comfort  of  her  embrace,  Ronald 
of  the  copper  curls  and  the  blue  eyes  lost  his  interest 
in  the  new  arrival  and  began  to  reflect  on  his  own 
woes  again.    The  gaze  of  Mrs.  Adams  had  a  threat- 


Flower  6*  the  Orange  ii 

ening  glitter  as  it  roamed  towards  him.  To  his  infant- 
perspicacity  it  assured  him,  more  distinctly  than 
words,  that  what  is  postponed  is  not  forgotten. 
And  he  wanted  his  Mary-Nan ! 

Simon  Carmichael  of  Eagemesse  had  eyes  of  the 
colour  of  one  of  his  own  burns,  under  rugged,  frown- 
ing brows.  There  was  something  not  unkind,  not  un- 
humorous  in  them,  for  those  who  could  see  beyond 
the  frown.  His  glance  moved  quickly  now  from  his 
old  servant's  quivering  countenance  to  Mrs.  Adams' 
visage  which  wore  a  granite  triumph,  like  to  some 
bleak  Covenanter's  monument,  testifying  to  relentless 
virtue.  Then  he  looked  at  his  child  and  then  at 
Meg  once  more. 

"How  now,  you  auld  witch !  And  haven't  you  a 
better  welcome  for  me?" 

The  voice  was  harsh.  There  was  no  relaxation 
about  the  melancholy  mouth.  But  Meg  knew  her 
master.  Her  heart  leapt,  tears  sprang  out  upon  her 
apple  cheeks. 

"Hech,  Eagemesse  —  hech,  my  bonny  man!" 

She  could  utter  no  further  word ;  she  was  too  full 
of  woe  for  him,  minding  all  that  had  been,  and  too 
fain  to  see  him  again. 

''Fighting,  screeching,  scratching  like  a  pair  of 
auld  tabbies!    Sic  a  hurdie-gurdie  ! " 


12  Flower  d*  the  Orange 

He  took  a  step  up  to  her,  and  the  next  instant  she 
was  weeping  on  his  hand,  clasping  it  in  both  her 
own. 

"Tush!  You're  nought  but  a  fool!"  said  he. 
He  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  child  who  was  now  re- 
duced to  the  hoarse  whine  of  exhaustion.  "And  so 
yon's  my  bairn,  Meg."  His  voice  had  altered  subtly, 
indescribably.  Disengaging  himself  from  her  grasp, 
he  stretched  out  a  finger  and  touched  the  wet  velvet 
of  the  babe's  cheek.  Little  Eagernesse  clutched  at 
the  long  finger  with  small  fevered  hands  and  was 
shaken  by  a  gusty  sob :  — 

"Want  Mary-Nan!" 

The  father  made  no  response;  but,  leaving  his 
hand  in  the  satin-soft  grip  —  that,  for  all  its  fragility, 
told  of  a  will  as  indomitable  as  his  own  —  again 
addressed  his  housekeeper  with  rough  good-nature, 
dropping  as  before  into  the  familiarity  of  language 
and  accent  that  was  to  her  the  most  flattering  of  com- 
pliments. 

"You'll  have  to  bustle,  old  lady.  I've  brought 
a  pack  of  fine  gentlemen  with  me,  and  ye'll  have  to 
get  them  bite  and  bed  or  be  clean  disgraced  !  Nay, 
never  gorm  at  me  that  way !  There  are  sheep  in  the 
park,  there's  wine  in  the  cellar.  Aye,  they  are  crack- 
ing a  bottle  or  so  in  the  library  this  minute  and  will 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  13 

be  none  too  particular  over  the  meat  by-and-by.  And 
I'll  see  to  it  that  the  heads  that  lie  on  your  pillows 
to-night  will  never  sniff  if  they  be  musty." 

The  tears  dried  under  the  fire  that  mounted  to  Mrs. 
Drummond's  cheeks. 

"  Musty  !  Gin  ye  brought  home  twenty  gentlemen 
as  grand  as  yourself,  Eagernesse,  there'd  be  twenty 
beds  fit  for  them  the  night.  And,  troth,  did  ye  think 
when  ye  left  me  the  head  of  a  housefu'  of  servants  all 
these  years  that  I'd  let  them  eat  the  bread  of  idleness  ? 
There's  a  haunch  in  the  larder  below,  aye  and  a  sau- 
mon  that  the  King  has  no  better.  Hech,  sir,  there's 
not  a  day  since  your  flitting,  and  me  not  knowing 
but  the  next  would  bring  you  hame  again,  that  your 
ain  castle  has  not  been  kept  ready  for  you  —  reek 
in  the  chimney,  broth  in  the  pot.  Aye,  and  the  very 
orange  trees  thick  with  blossoms  this  verra  day !" 

No  sooner  had  she  said  the  last  words  than  she 
could  have  bitten  her  tongue  out,  remembering  for 
whom  the  orangery  had  been  built. 

"Mary-Nan,"  hiccoughed  young  Eagernesse. 

"  Be  silent,  Master  Carmichael !"  commanded  Mrs. 
Adams. 

She  had  been  awaiting  the  master's  recognition  with 
her  air  of  unyielding  rectitude.  She  knew  the  story 
of  his  house,  knew  for  what  qualities  the  bitter  grand- 


14  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

mother  had  chosen  her  among  a  hundred  —  what  evi/ 
taint  was  to  be  driven  from  the  little  heir,  even  with 
stripes.  It  was  high  time,  indeed  —  she  smoothed 
the  prickly,  black  mohair  skirt  where  the  apron  should 
have  spread  —  that  a  man's  hand  should  be  wielded 
upon  the  wilful  boy. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  sir,  that  Master  Carmichael 
has  been  very  disobedient  to-night,  very  obstinate 
and  unsubmissive  indeed." 

The  elder  Carmichael  shot  a  swift,  flashing  glance 
at  her  out  of  his  cairngorm  eyes.  Then  he  looked  at 
the  over-turned  milk-bowl,  at  the  white  pool  on  the 
bare  boards,  and  lastly  at  the  bright-curled,  hot- 
cheeked  criminal  on  the  bed.  The  blue  gaze  looked 
up  at  him  brimming  over.  The  baby  hands  kept 
unflinching  hold  of  his  finger.  Mrs.  Drummond, 
on  her  way  about  her  household  business,  paused  at 
the  door,  shaking  in  her  shoes.  The  master  had 
grown  a  dreadful  dour-looking  man. 

"And  what  is  Mary-Nan?"  he  asked,  suddenly 
and  sharply. 

Both  women  answered  together:  — 

"And,  indeed,  the  puir  bairn's  just  daft  after 
her—" 

"She  has  a  most  deplorable  influence  upon  Master 
Carmichael  —  " 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  15 

"She's  a  verra  gude  kind  young  leddy,  just  the 
daughter  of  the  meenister  — " 

*'I  should  not  be  doing  my  duty,  Mr.  Carmichael, 
sir,  conformable  to  Lady  Ishbel's  instructions  — " 

"She  comes  up  whiles  to  have  a  crack  with 
me." 

"Master  Carmichael's  passionate  and  rebellious 
nature  demands  the  strictest  discipline."  The  nurse's 
measured  tones  outstayed  old  Meg's  fluttered  volu- 
bility. "I  have  informed  Master  Carmichael  of  my 
decision  to  prohibit  any  further  intercourse  between 
him  and  Miss  Mackenzie,  and  he  has  shown  very 
evil  tempers,  hearing  she  was  in  the  house."  Her 
eye,  with  its  menace,  fixed  itself  upon  the  child.  "I 
have  already  chastised  him  for  his  passion  to-day,  and 
have  had  to  tell  him  that  I  shall  repeat  the  chastise- 
ment presently." 

Here  Eagernesse's  finger  was  nipped  and  wrung; 
but  in  the  roar  that  burst  from  the  accused,  he  was 
aware  more  of  thwarted  fury  than  of  fear. 

"Where  is  this  girl  —  this  Mary-Nan?" 

Housekeeper  and  nurse  stared  at  him,  both  striv- 
ing in  vain  to  read  the  impassive  face.  Then  Mrs. 
Adams  tossed  her  head  victoriously.  The  peremp- 
tory voice  augured  well  in  her  ears.  Certain  people 
should  be  taught  their  place  at  last.     But  old  Meg 


i6  Flower  o*  the  Orange 

glanced  at  the  patient,  extended  finger  and  took  heart 
of  grace. 

"She's  in  the  house  the  noo!"  she  cried  eagerly. 

Equally  rejoiced  were  the  belligerents  over  the  im- 
mediate order :  — 

"Send  her  up." 

While  they  waited  the  nurse  dilated  at  some  length 
on  her  educational  system,  drawn  out  by  abrupt 
questions.  She  was  becoming,  for  her,  quite  genial, 
when  the  nursery  door  burst  open  and  a  girl,  with  a 
tartan  shawl  hanging  off  her  shoulders,  rushed  in 
upon  them,  panting  as  she  ran. 

"  Oh,  Mary-Nan,  my  Mary-Nan  !"  cried  the  child. 

It  was  so  rapturous,  at  the  same  time  so  pitiful 
a  call,  that  old  Meg,  toiling  up  the  corkscrew  stair 
after  the  girl,  was  struck  to  the  heart. 

Little  Eagernesse  let  go  his  father's  finger  to  stretch 
out  his  arms.  Neither  he  nor  the  new-comer  had  eyes 
but  for  each  other.  She  came  straight  to  him  with 
long  swift  steps,  and  culled  him  to  her  breast.  He  gave 
a  wriggle  of  comfort  and  content  ineffable,  and  patting 
her  cheeks  began  to  pour  forth,  in  his  incomplete  lan- 
guage, a  tale  of  woe  and  misdeeds,  the  while  she 
cooed  and  crooned  over  him  like  some  large,  soft 
mother-bird. 

"  My  wee  cummie,  my  bonny  wee  man !" 


Flower  6*  the  Orange  17 

"She  beated  me  with  her  slipper  —  I  fro  wed  my 
milk  on  the  floor  !" 

"Ah,  but  that  was  wrong  of  my  bonny  dove! 
How  will  sweet  boys  grow  strong  and  big  if  they  winna 
drink  their  suppie  —  suppie  —  suppie  ! "  And  kisses 
well-nigh  between  every  word  —  soft,  open-mouthed, 
wet-lipped  on  the  babe's  part,  close  and  sweet  and 
greedy  on  hers. 

Mrs.  Adams  folded  her  arms. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Carmichael,  sir,"  she  said,  exulting. 
"You  see  for  yourself  my  reasons  for  excluding  Miss 
Mackenzie  from  Master  Carmichael 's  society." 

There  was  a  tight  smile  on  her  face.  She  felt 
very  sure  of  her  ground ;  the  father,  she  knew,  had 
not  borne  to  look  upon  his  son  for  four  years,  and  the 
Lady  Ishbel's  instructions  had  been  very  precise. 

Eagernesse  started  from  the  abstraction,  during 
which  he  had  been  gazing  at  the  girl,  and  slowly 
moved  his  eyes  until  they  rested  on  the  speaker. 
Then  he  flung  out  his  hand,  long  finger  still  extended : 

"As  for  you  —  pack  !" 

Mrs.  Adams  could  not  credit  her  ears. 

"  Pack,  I  say !  Out  of  my  house  this  night ! 
Pack  and  go." 

"Sir  —  Mr.  Carmichael — "  She  turned  a  livid 
face,  defiant.     She  knew  her  rights. 


1 8  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

He  strode  upon  her ;  it  was  enough.  She  quailed, 
shrank ;  her  steel  became  mere  rag.  Whining,  she 
supplicated  —  a  few  days'  grace  —  till  the  morning ! 

"Not  an  hour."  He  came  closer  as  she  retreated. 
"Meg'll  see  to  your  money.     Out,  neck  and  crop  !" 

On  the  threshold  she  made  a  last  cringing  halt. 
The  dear  child,  who  should  care  for  it  that  night? 

"Mary-Nan,"  said  Eagernesse,  and  slammed  the 
door  on  the  long  sinister  visage. 

Then  he  turned  round,  folded  his  arms,  looked  at 
the  two,  and  was  shaken  with  sudden,  silent  laughter. 

Mary-Nan  was  gazing  at  him  over  the  curly  head  ; 
and  as  their  glances  commingled  the  colour  rose  to 
her  face,  even  to  the  roots  of  her  glorious  black  hair. 
A  cheek  like  an  apricot  she  had,  the  eyes  of  a  fawn, 
a  column  of  amber  throat,  a  crisp  wave  of  locks 
round  a  head  shaped  like  that  of  some  Greek  statue. 
She  held  his  heavy  child  against  her  bosom  with  the 
ease  of  perfect  strength.     Wonder  grew  as  he  looked. 

Ronald,  worn  out  by  his  mighty  battle,  still 
shaken  with  reminiscent  sighs,  drooped  against  her, 
cuddled,  and  fell  asleep.  Instinctively  she  began  to 
rock  him,  as  she  stood,  patting  the  dimpled  arm :  — 

"You  did  verra  weel,  sir,"  she  said.  "She  was 
a  wicked  woman  yon,  and  cruel  to  the  puir  lad- 
die." 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  19 

He  made  an  abrupt  gesture.  Gone  was  the  vile 
hag  from  his  thought ;  more  interesting  matter  was 
before  him. 

"In  God's  name,  and  where  do  you  spring  from?" 

"From  the  manse  below,  at  Monreith." 

"Good  heavens !" 

Aye,  she  explained,  the  minister,  Mr.  Mackenzie, 
was  her  father.  They  had  been  here  a  few  years 
now,  and  they  liked  it  very  well. 

"And  your  name  is  Mary  Anne  Mackenzie?" 

She  corrected  him  with  a  smile.  She  had  beautiful 
lips,  richly  cut  and  of  a  noble  crimson  to  fit  the  smooth 
amber  of  her  skin :  — 

"  Maria- Annunziata  Mackenzie." 

He  laughed  again ;  his  quick,  silent  laughter  that 
seemed  but  to  shake  him,  in  his  melancholy,  for  the 
humour,  but  never  for  the  mirth  of  things. 

" Maria- Annunziata  —  and  to  that,  Mackenzie! 
Maria-Annunziata,  and  you  a  daughter  of  the  Kirk, 
of  the  purified  Kirk  of  Scotland  !" 

"  My  mother  was  of  Italy,"  she  went  on  composedly, 
rocking  and  patting,  with  ever  and  anon  a  maternal 
glance  at  the  nestling  head  between  her  full  frank 
looks  at  him.  Each  time  she  lowered  her  lids  he 
marvelled  at  the  black  lashes  sweeping  her  cheeks. 

"My  mother  was  of  Italy,"  she  repeated.     "Aye, 


20  Flower  6*  the  Orange 

sir,  my  father  wedded  her  out  of  pity,  one  may  say, 
she  being  a  castaway  from  the  wreck  of  a  foreign  ship, 
and  all  lost  but  her.  Some  folks  said  the  ship  sailed 
from  Genoa,  for  the  cases  of  oranges  that  the  waves 
kept  flinging  upon  the  beach;  but  no  one  rightly 
kenned.  And  she  had  not  a  word  of  any  language 
but  her  own.  My  father  scarce  knew  aught  but  that 
she  was  a  puir  desolate  lass,  and  that  her  name  was 
Maria- Annunziata.  Folks  telled  me,"  she  went  on, 
unconsciously  dropping  her  voice  to  a  lilting  rhythm 
to  accompany  her  rocking  of  the  child,  "that  she 
never  was  as  ither  folk  after  the  shock  and  the  hard- 
ship. But  my  father  loved  her  dear,  and  she  died 
when  I  was  born.  That  was  in  the  other  parish 
where  we  lived,  near  Arbroath  by  the  sea." 

She  told  her  tale  with  a  grave  simplicity  that 
seemed  to  rob  her  of  all  embarrassment  before 
the  great  lord  of  the  land.  Her  voice  had  a  low 
music,  deeper  than  most  women's ;  indeed,  there  was 
in  her  whole  being  a  mellowness  as  of  other  suns,  a 
warmth,  a  generosity,  an  unconscious  freedom. 

"Ha,"  he  cried,  "I  might  have  known,  by  the  mere 
look  of  you,  that  such  a  flower  o'  the  orange  could 
bloom  in  our  barren  land  but  by  a  freak  of  fate  !" 

"In  heaven's  name,  Eagernesse,"  said  old  Meg, 
creaking  open  the  door,  "the  gentlemen  are  wild  for 


Flower  d'  the  Orange  21 

you  in  the  library,  and  I  maun  have  an  hour's  grace 
to  get  their  fires  up." 

"I'm  coming, them!"  said  Eagernesse,  gen- 
ially. 

He  drew  close  to  Maria-Annunziata  as  he  spoke, 
and  once  more  laid  his  finger  lightly  on  his  child's 
cheek.  Then,  without  word  or  look  for  the  girl,  he 
marched  to  the  door.  On  the  threshold,  however, 
he  paused  and  nodded  at  her. 

"You  will  mind  him  to-night,"  he  said. 

She  started  in  dismayed  protest :  — 

"Hech,  sir,  but  my  father!  I  canna  leave  my 
father  the  night." 

"Tush!  Your  father  shall  be  warned.  You'll 
bide."  The  door  was  closed  upon  her  further  objec- 
tion. 

Left  alone,  old  Meg  and  Mary-Nan  gazed  at  each 
other. 

"You  maun  bide,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"And,  indeed.  Mistress  Drummond,  I  canna. 
If  'twas  to  save  the  bairnie  from  yon  dreadful  wum- 
man,  I'd  stay  and  gladly.  But  he'll  be  safe  wi'  you ; 
and  my  auld  hinnie  will  take  neither  bite  nor  sup 
this  evening  without  me." 

"You  maun  bide,"  repeated  Meg.  "  Eh,  you  little 
ken  Eagernesse !    He's  no  to  be  thwarted,  that  gate. 


sa  Flower  d'  the  Orange 

Hech,  lass,  he's  master  here,  and  the  meenister  him- 
self would  no  wish  to  misplease  him,  the  very  nicht 
of  his  hame-coming  after  a'  the  sair  years ;  he  that 
holds  us  all,  as  one  may  say,  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  ! 
Me  watch  the  bairn?  I  darena,  Mary-Nan,  that's 
the  truth.  Did  ye  catch  his  eye  upon  me  as  he  went 
out  ?  His  order's  given  —  Tut,  tut,  hark  to  that 
now!"  The  girl  had  endeavoured  to  slip  the  child 
into  his  cot  again.  He  woke,  clung  about  her  neck, 
and  set  up  a  drowsy  cry.  "You'll  have  him  roaring 
again,  Mary,  lass.  Aye,  he  may  have  his  mother's 
een  and  his  mother's  hair,  but  he  has  his  father's 
wull,  and  the  pair  of  them  will  not  let  you  hame  the 
nicht !  Besides,  I  have  ower  muckle  to  look  after. 
You  maun  bide,  there's  my  douce  lassie." 

"Why,  if  I  maun,  I  maun,"  said  Maria- Annun- 
ziata,  placidly.  She  bent  over  the  cot,  soothing  the 
little  tyrant.    Then,  suddenly  looking  up :  — 

"He  never  so  much  as  kissed  the  laddie,"  she  said. 

Old  Meg  hesitated  at  the  door.  Various  duties 
were  calling  her  hence,  urgently  enough;  yet  she 
loved  a  bit  of  gossip  dearly,  and  here  was  the  one 
being  worthy  of  her  confidence. 

"Eh,  Mary-Nan"  —  she  came  back,  her  voice 
dropped  to  an  important  whisper.  "They're  a 
strange  race,  the  Carmichaels,  and  him  the  strangest 


Flower  d*  the  Orange  23 

of  them  all !  I  tell  you,  even  I  who  nursed  him,  many 
a  time  my  mind  has  misgiven  me  as  to  whether  he'd 
ever  bear  the  sight  of  his  child,  sith  it's  got  the  image 
stamped  on  it  of  the  puir  thing  that's  gone.  Troth, 
I  could  have  dropped  as  I  saw  him  standing  there,  a 
while  ago,  looking  at  the  wean;  but  he's  a  father's 
heart  in  him,  richt  eneuch  —  did  you  mind  him  wait- 
ing by  the  cot  with  his  finger  in  the  wee  hand,  so 
patient  ?  It  did  my  old  een  guid  to  see.  I  was  with- 
out, in  the  passage,  ye  ken.  Aye,  and  to  hear  him 
turn  on  yon  awfu'  English  woman  !  *  Pack  !'  says  he." 

As  Meg  rambled  on,  the  girl  drew  a  stool  by  the  cot 
and  sat,  her  long  hand,  delicately  golden  against  the 
white  quilt,  patting  the  sleeping  child  in  a  knowing 
way,  though  her  eyes  were  fixed  and  abstracted. 
The  shadows  were  growing  deep  in  the  great  bare 
tower-room;  and  a  ghostly  greyness  was  beginning 
to  settle  about  the  familiar  objects. 

"He  seems  a  dour,  wilful  gentleman  indeed  — yet 
I  wonder  how  she  could  have  kft  him." 

"Is  it  the  Lady  Lilias  ye  mean?  Whisht,  Mary- 
Nan,  it  is  a  fearsome  thing  to  be  speaking  of  her, 
and  him  in  the  house !  Ah,  lassie,  when  I  think 
of  the  night  she  ran,  and  Eagernesse's  face  when  he 
kenned  the  news !" 

"Did  he  love  her  so  much?"   murmured  Maria- 


24  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

Annunziata.  "Hech!  How  could  she  have  the 
heart?" 

"Love !  Aweel,  I  couldna  tell  ye.  He  would  have 
let  her  walk  on  siller  and  gowd  if  she'd  had  a  mind  ! 
Nothing  was  too  good  or  too  grand  for  her.  Wench, 
the  cedar-presses  in  the  great  room  below  are  full  of 
her  gowns  this  minute  —  braw  silks  and  satins  that 
would  keep  a  family  for  life.  And,  ye  mind  the  or- 
angery, where  ye  be  so  fond  of  peeping  into  and 
sniflnng  the  scent  ?  That  was  built  for  a  mere  whim- 
sey  of  hers.  But  love,  lassie  ?  —  nay,  there  are  whiles 
I  think  he  never  loved  her,  and  that  she  knew  it ! " 

"But  she  must  have  been  bonny,"  said  Mary-Nan, 
her  chin  in  her  hand,  crouching  on  the  creepie  stool. 
The  glow  of  the  peat  fire  played  on  her  face.  "She 
must  have  been  bonny,  since  the  bairn  be  so  like 
her." 

"Bonny?  Aye,  bonny  she  was!  But  it  was  the 
pride  of  the  auld  leddy  that  made  the  match,  and  sic 
matches  are  not  made  in  heaven.  Lady  Ishbel  was 
set  on  it  in  the  upliftedness  of  her  heart.  'A'  the 
Carmichaels,'  says  she,  'have  wedded  with  dukes' 
daughters  since  Colum  Carmichael  of  Otterburn  — 
and  he  chose  the  daughter  of  a  king ! '  Weel,  weel, 
their  pride  was  sune  laid  low,  for  within  the  twa  year 
the  Lady  Lilias  had  runned  wi'  a  mad  cousin  of  her 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  25 

own  —  just  hame  that  week  from  the  Indies  !  And 
her  name  never  to  be  spoken  again  but  wi'  bated 
breath  for  the  shame  on  it." 

''  And  where  did  she  die  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  dropping 
her  voice. 

"Far  away  from  her  ain  country  —  in  some  for- 
eign place  —  aye,  it  was  Germany,  as  I  heard  tell. 
And  some  say  'twas  of  fretting  after  the  man  and  bairn 
she  had  left.  But  I've  heerd  a  queer  tale,  of  how  yon 
ither  —  the  callant  she  was  led  away  by,  ye  ken  — 
was  but  a  cauld,  black-hearted  traitor  to  her  after 
a'  —  how  he  sune  tired  of  her  and  left  her  wi'out 
freend  or  money,  in  a  strange  land,  her  ain  having 
cast  her  off.  Whilk  the  laird,  having  tracked  him 
across  the  seas,  brought  him  by  the  ear,  they  say,  as 
you  bring  a  cur-dog  —  to  the  puir  place  she  was 
sheltered  in.  And  then  in  the  garden,  beneath  her 
very  windows,  he  ran  him  through  the  body.  If  I 
ken  Eagernesse,  it  was  fair  fecht  but  no  mercy. 

''And  then,  it  being  the  night-time  and  the  mune 
in  the  sky,  he  called  her  by  name,  till  she  ran  and 
speered  out.  I'm  thinking  his  voice,  rising  in  her 
sleep,  must  have  seemed  like  some  awful  spirit-call 
to  her.  But,  there,  gin  the  tale  be  true,  stood  Eager- 
nesse, flesh  and  bluid,  with  the  wan  light  on  his  face 
—  and  him  laughing  to  himself.     (I've  never  heard 


26  Flower  d*  the  Orange 

him  laugh  out  loud.)  '  My  lady,  come  and  see  what 
I've  made  of  your  bonny  lover.  .  .  .'  Weel,  they 
say,  when  she  saw  the  two,  the  living  and  the  dead, 
she  gave  a  great  shriek  and  fell.  They  pit  her  back 
in  her  bed,  and  she  only  left  it  for  her  coffin.  Well, 
well,  'tis  all  as  may  be.  From  first  to  last,  an  ower- 
sad,  ower-bitter  business.  The  Leddy  Ishbel,  she 
came  to  see  me  afterwards,  three  years  agone  now. 
*  Have  ye  heard  the  news,  Meg  ? '  says  she.  '  Yon's 
gone  to  her  account,'  says  she.  'I  ha  vena  had  such 
sweet  sleep  this  twal'  months.'  —  God  be  wi'  us,  but 
I'm  a  daft  old  fule  1  You  suldna  be  temptin'  me  to 
the  gossip,  lassie.  And  ne'er  a  one  in  this  castle 
with  a  head  on  her  shoulders  but  myself !" 

She  had  bustled  forth  even  as  she  spoke.  Maria- 
Annunziata  sat,  still  staring  into  the  crumbling  peat ; 
the  rhythmic  breath  of  the  child  fell  softly  on  her  ear. 
High  in  the  tower-room  no  sound  of  the  bustle  in  the 
castle  reached  her;  nought  but  the  wail  of  the  wind 
rising  about  the  walls,  and  the  grinding  of  the  surf 
on  the  rocks  far  below.  They  were  terrible  scenes, 
lurid  with  passion  and  violence,  that  she  pictured  for 
herself  in  the  embers.  And  the  centre  of  them  was 
ever  Eagernesse,  that  strange,  gaunt  man,  of  the  bent 
brows  and  the  clear,  melancholy  eyes,  with  their 
stealthy  gleam  of  kindness. 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  27 

n 

It  was  a  curious  company  that  Simon  Carmichael 
had  gathered  round  him  that  night;  partly  for  the 
carrying  out  of  an  irresponsible  wager;  partly  be- 
cause of  his  determination  that  none  should  pity  him 
for  a  sad  home-coming. 

From  Edinburgh  he  had  carried  with  him  two  boon 
companions  of  his  younger  days,  together  with  a  new 
acquaintance  —  all  culled,  as  it  were,  from  a  single 
convivial  meeting,  on  the  mere  gust  of  his  mood. 
There  was  Lord  Dunure  —  dashing  member  of  the 
Regent's  own  circle,  and  well  qualified  for  that 
exalted  privilege  —  who  could  boast  that  he  had 
wrenched  off  more  knockers,  disabled  more  watch- 
men, backed  more  prizefighters,  than  any  other  gentle- 
man honoured  with  the  Royal  regard ;  there  was  Sir 
Lucius  Damory,  would-be  Maecenas  and  would-be 
wit ;  with  him  his  latest  protSge,  Duncan  Teague,  a 
poet,  reputed  to  have  been  a  shepherd  in  Aberdeen- 
shire till  his  rhymes  brought  him  into  fame  and  high 
circles  —  a  small,  squat,  dark  man  this  third,  given 
to  terrible  passions  of  eloquence  between  pregnant 
hours  of  silence.  And  besides  there  was  a  hard- 
riding  neighbouring  laird,  picked  up  en  route,  and  a 
slim,  smooth-cheeked  boy,  the  Marquess  of  Dum- 


28  Flower  o*  the  Orange 

barton,  Eagemesse's  own  cousin  on  the  maternal  side. 
The  last  was  known  as  Dumb  Dumbarton,  because 
of  his  extraordinary  taciturnity :  a  taciturnity  his  own 
neighbours  estimated  as  in  no  way  arising  from  the 
bashfulness  of  his  years.  "Ower  proud  to  speak," 
they  had  it.  He  came  from  the  far  Highlands,  arriv- 
ing after  the  rest  of  the  party,  with  quite  a  retinue  of 
servants,  including  his  piper.  Mistress  Drummond 
had  taken  special  pains  about  his  apartments;  not 
so  much  because  he  was  the  grandest  of  her  master's 
guests,  as  because  "his  hair  had  a  bit  curl  in  it,  and 
her  heart  always  went  out  to  a  laddie." 

The  great  dining  hall  was  filled  with  light  and 
clamour.  Servants  ran  hither  and  thither,  poising 
the  silver  dishes ;  and  the  savoury  reek  of  the  feast 
mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms  from  the 
orangery  that  ran  parallel  to  the  hall.  Each  man 
had  to  his  hand  brimming  glasses  of  wines,  red,  white, 
and  amber;  Burgundy,  velvety,  perfumed,  potent; 
claret,  subtle  and  insidious;  champagne  with  the 
laughing  bubble;  Rhenish  with  its  frosty  sunshine. 
Tongues  were  loosened,  merriment  rippled. 

The  shepherd -poet  beat  the  table  and  stormed  a 
long  speech  in  broad  and  picturesque  tongue.  Some- 
thing it  had  to  do  with  former  existence  and  predesti- 
nation, something  with  politics  —  a  good  deal  with 


Flower  o*  the  Orange  29 

the  speaker's  conviction  that  one  man  was  as  good 
as  another  —  in  the  present  instance  possibly  better. 

The  company  at  first  shouted  and  applauded,  then 
became  suddenly  and  irrevocably  bored ;  until  Eager- 
nesse,  with  hoarse  gibe,  drove  the  poor  rhymester 
into  a  fit  of  fury,  wherein  he  cursed  and  quoted 
fiercely  from  Ezekiel  and  from  that  chiel.  Burns; 
whereat  laughter  broke  out  once  more  round  the 
table.  Damory  poured  claret  on  his  satellite's  wrath, 
and  Dunure  vowed  it  hissed  as  it  ran  down  the  hot 
throat;  which  idea  striking  the  poetic  mind,  the 
shepherd  yielded  himself  to  one  of  his  silences  for 
the  working  of  it  to  a  lilt. 

The  moment  came  when  smoking  joint  and  pom- 
pous platter  gave  place  to  the  less  gross  attractions  of 
dessert  Four  silver  baskets,  which  had  been  of 
Eagernesse's  wedding  gifts,  gleamed  in  the  candle- 
light under  their  burden  of  pine  and  grape  and  ruddy 
orange.  The  cut-glass  decanters  circled  from  hand  to 
hand,  casting  a  glow  like  jewels  on  the  mahogany. 
It  should  have  been  the  moment  of  highest  mirth. 
The  guests  had  drunk  deeply,  but,  as  times  went, 
not  too  deeply.  The  fare  had  more  than  carried  out 
Meg's  boast,  and  vindicated  her  master's  rash  wager. 
Half  a  tree-bole  was  burning  gloriously  on  the  vast 
hearth,  and  the  March  wind  was  rising  without. 


30  Flower  d*  the  Orange 

Each  could  picture  to  himself  how  the  waves  were 
leaping  upon  the  wild  coast,  how  the  trees  were  bow- 
ing and  writhing,  and  gladden  his  heart  with  the 
cheer  and  comfort  within. 

Yet,  as  they  sat,  there  had  fallen  a  gloom  about  the 
six  men;  a  chill  striking  out,  it  seemed,  from  the 
host  himself,  and  passed  on  with  interest  by  haughty 
Dumbarton  on  his  right.  Damory  lost  the  thread  of 
his  wittiest  sentence,  and  Dunure  yawned  in  the  midst 
of  a  laugh;  Rob  Raeburn  of  Penninghame  took 
affront,  God  knows  why,  all  of  a  sudden  at  being  set 
down  to  table  with  Teague,  who  had  driven  sheep. 
He  strove  to  catch  Eagernesse's  eye  for  the  picking  of 
a  quarrel;  but,  having  met  it,  was  withered  into  a 
nameless  fear  and  had  to  drink  a  glass  of  brandy 
before  his  blood  warmed  again.  As  for  Teague,  he 
was  scanning  —  his  great  thumb  beating  the  table  — 
but  could  not  bring  a  rhyme,  had  he  been  hanged  for 
it. 

Dunure,  by  the  left  of  Eagernesse,  struck  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  man,  what's  become  of  your 
boast  ?  'Tis  not  a  funeral,  I  take  it,  you've  convened 
us  to." 

Carmichael  lifted  his  head. 

"  My  lord,"  said  he,  "  I  claim  to  have  won  my  wager. 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  31 

When  ye  were  for  pitying  me  at  leaving  the  blithe 
cheer  of  the  town  for  my  ramshackle  old  sea-castle 
which  I  had  not  seen  for  so  many  years,  I  went  war- 
rant that  I  should  find  in  it  any  day  as  good  enter- 
tainment as  we  were  sharing  at  the  moment  —  aye, 
and  better !  Now  these  gentlemen  will  bear  me  out : 
has  my  venison  been  less  savoury  than  that  of  old 
Destournaux's  at  the  George  ?  Or  is  it  my  wine 
that  is  not  up  to  the  standard  of  his  cellar? — It  was 
scarce  in  the  bargain,"  he  went  on,  with  a  black  look, 
''that  I  should  provide  you  with  digestions  to  take 
comfort  in  my  vivers,  or  with  wits  to  sparkle  after 
my  bottles." 

Lord  Dunure  was  of  a  very  different  make  from 
country-bred  Penninghame.  He  resented  his  host's 
look  and  tone  instantly.  His  light,  dancing  brown 
eyes  fixed  themselves  in  answering  menace. 

"Listen  to  Simon  Carmichael ! "  he  scoffed.  "  Does 
he  not  talk  like  an  innkeeper,  and  a  sullen  one  at 
that?    Vivers  and  wine  —  his  bottle,  his  venison!" 

"If  there  is  anything  I  can  further  provide  for 
Lord  Dunure's  entertainment?"    said   Eagernesse. 

There  was  a  threat  in  his  voice  like  gathering 
thunder,  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelled.  Damory, 
scenting  the  tedium  of  a  quarrel,  strove  to  turn  the 
question  with  a  joke,  vowed  the  entertainment  was 


32  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

unexceptionable,  but  the  evening  only  just  begun; 
called  for  a  song  and  nudged  Dumbarton  to  support 
him ;  whereat  the  latter,  unostentatiously  withdraw- 
ing from  the  touch,  suggested  (not  without  a  jesting 
gleam  in  his  blue  eyes)  that  he  could  have  his  piper 
in,  if  any  one  cared. 

Here  there  rose  a  clamour;  for  Teague,  standing 
up,  proposed  to  gie  the  table  a  bit  verse  of  his  ain,  verra 
divertin' ;  and  Rob,  whom  the  brandy  had  altogether 
befuddled,  raised  a  steady  roar  for  the  piper.  Into 
this  hurly-burly  Dunure,  his  red  eye  still  on  the  host, 
slipped  his  dagger-thrust  of  words :  — 

"Pshaw,  friends,  what  we  miss  in  this  house  is  a 
lady's  presence.  Your  wine's  good  enough,  Eager- 
nesse,  and  so  is  your  fare.  But  what's  a  man's  castle 
without  a  lady  in  bower?  Gad,  man,  we  do  lack  a 
hostess." 

"Say  you  so?"  said  Eagemesse. 

In  the  emphasing  silence  that  suddenly  surrounded 
them,  both  men  smiled  with  dilated  nostrils  and  un- 
flinching stare  upon  each  other.  Then,  unexpectedly, 
Carmichael  laughed  in  his  noiseless  way  and  rang  the 
bell  that  stood  beside  his  plate.  The  silence  deep- 
ened as  all  watched  him. 

"  Where  host  can  gratify  guest  he  is  bound  to  do  so, 
by  every  rule  of  hospitality."    He  laid  grating  em- 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  33 

phasis  on  the  words  host,  guest,  and  hospitality ;  and 
Dunure  with  repressed  fury  knew  himself  rebuked. 
*'  You  miss  a  lady  at  my  table  —  a  hostess  to  whom  to 
toss  your  glasses?     So  be  it!" 

The  butler  stood  before  him. 

"  Bid  Mistress  Mackenzie  come  down  to  us !" 

The  man  hesitated,  met  his  master's  eye,  bowed 
and  withdrew.  And  in  the  persistent  stillness  that 
succeeded  —  for  none  knew  what  to  make  of  him  — 
Eagernesse  looked  slowly  from  face  to  face,  and  again 
was  shaken  with  hard,  secret  mirth. 

But  when  an  apple-cheeked  old  woman,  resplen- 
dent in  white  cap  and  lace  apron,  bustling  skirts  of 
purple  silk  about  her,  appeared  as  if  in  answer  to  the 
summons,  there  was  such  a  shriek  of  laughter,  such 
howls  and  jeers  that,  for  the  moment,  no  word  of 
Carmichael  could  be  heard. 

Presently,  however,  as  it  dawned  on  his  guests 
—  by  his  stupendous  frown  and  the  sharpness  with 
which  he  turned  on  the  new-comer  —  that  here  was 
no  trick  to  mock  their  gallant  humour,  but  an  unex- 
pected thwarting  of  his  own,  there  was  again  a 
general  hush. 

"How  now,  Meg,  and  who  wants  you  here,  auld 
Jezebel?" 

As  Meg  said  later:  "He  might  growl  like  ony  ill- 


34  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

tempered  mastiff,  but  there  was  ever  a  wag  of  the  tail 
for  me  behind  it  a'."  Nevertheless,  she  trembled  a 
little  as  she  curtseyed,  for  it  was  a  strange  and  a  bold 
thing  for  her  to  be  standing  there,  and  all  the  braw 
gentlemen  staring  at  her ;  but  she  had  no  fear  of  him. 

"Eagernesse,  you're  no  in  earnest  in  sending  for 
yon  lassie,  and  she  under  the  shelter  of  your  roof  the 
night  for  the  love  of  your  ain  bairn  ?  Hech,  sirs,  she 
may  not  be  the  grand  kind  you're  used  to,  but  yon's 
a  leddy." 

Eagernesse's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  old  woman. 

"  Meg,"  said  he,  "present  my  compliments  to  Miss 
Mackenzie,  and  tell  her  I  beg  for  the  favour  of  her 
company  for  half-an-hour.  And  what  have  I  done" 
(his  voice  dropped  to  a  lower  note)  "that  you'll  no 
trust  a  leddy  at  my  table  for  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

She  glanced  at  him  smiling;  her  smile  wavered; 
she  smoothed  her  apron;  then  she  curtseyed,  once 
to  him,  once  to  the  company,  her  poplin  rattling  and 
rustling,  and  turned  on  her  errand  without  another 
word. 

"Fill  your  glasses,  gentlemen,  and  hold  them 
ready,  for  you'll  soon  have  a  sight  worth  toasting." 

From  gloom  Carmichael  seemed  to  have  sprung 
to  highest  spirits.  There  was  fire  under  his  rugged, 
black  brows ;  colour  had  risen  darkly  to  the  lean  face. 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  35 

Among  his  guests  a  new  interest  had  driven  all  dul- 
ness  forth :  — 

But,  after  all,  it  was  old  Meg  who  came  back  again. 
She  looked  scared  this  time,  and  her  voice  was  plead- 
ing. 

"Miss  Mackenzie's  humble  compliments,  sir,  she 
trusts  you  will  not  think  her  discourteous,  but  she's 
no  raiment  fit  for  company  the  nicht." 

"No  raiment?  Bid  her  take  what  she  fancies 
from  the  cedar  room.  Begone,  woman,  hurry ! 
And  tell  Miss  Mackenzie  we  are  all  waiting  on  her." 

With  one  glance,  as  if  she  had  seen  the  devil  in 
him,  old  Meg  hurried  to  the  door.  "Bid  her  make 
herself  grand!"   thundered  Carmichael  after  her. 

The  sound  of  laughter  pursued  her,  as  she  panted 
up  the  winding  stairs;  but  she  knew  that  his  voice 
was  not  of  it,  that  the  laughter  shaking  him  was 
dumb. 

"Eh,  lassie,  but  he's  an  awfu'  man!"  she  cried, 
as  she  tiptoed  into  the  nursery,  and  stood  wringing 
her  hands.  "You  maun  go  down,  aye,  and  you 
maun  make  yourself  grand  from  the  gowns  in  the 
cedar  presses.  Hech,  hinnie,  you  mind  —  the  puir 
leddy's  gowns  ?" 

She  dropped  her  voice,  in  utter  accents  of  awe. 
But  the  girl,  rising  from  the  table  where  she  had  just 


36  Flower  6*  the  Orange 

finished  her  evening  meal,  had  an  expression  of  inno- 
cent pleasure  and  curiosity. 

"  Maun  I  choose  among  the  braw  silks  —  maun  I 
go  down  among  a'  the  gentrice?" 

"'Tis  but  for  half-an-hour.  Nay,  nay,  ye  need 
have  no  fear,  lassie.  Eagernesse  may  have  his  wild 
ways  now  and  then,  but  he's  always  an  honest 
gentleman.  Have  no  fear,  I'd  be  sair  loth  he'd  think 
you  wudna  trust  him." 

"And  why  for  no?"  said  Maria- Annunziata, 
opening  velvet  eyes  wide. 


m 


Lady  Lilias  had  been  tall  and  very  slight;  the 
minister's  daughter  was  as  tall,  but  built  on  more 
generous  lines.  There  was  a  white  satin  gown  for 
which  the  girl  hankered  mightily,  preferring  it  — 
with  the  taste  inherited  from  a  race  where  art  is  in 
the  very  blood  —  to  the  more  elaborate  garments  in 
which  the  dead  woman  seemed  to  have  rejoiced. 

The  satin  folds  fell  in  grace  over  her  hips  to  the 
feet,  but  Mary-Nan  turned  with  a  rueful  smile  to 
show  Meg  how  far  the  gold  clasps  were  from  meeting 
across  her  bust. 

Then  Meg  had  an  inspiration.     She  had  been  woe- 


Flower  d*  the  Orange  37 

ful,  even  to  tears,  over  the  drawing  on  of  the  silk 
stockings,  over  the  fitting  of  the  high-heeled  mules, 
which  had  been  her  mistress's  bedroom  wear  the  very 
month  of  her  flitting  (Maria-Annunziata's  arched, 
well-nigh  classic  foot  made  a  mockery  of  the  narrow 
sandals) ;  but  the  housekeeper's  woman-instinct  was 
not  long  proof  against  the  attractions  of  dressing  up. 
Shaking  out  of  its  folds,  triumphantly,  a  scarf  of  lace, 
filmy  as  though  it  had  been  wrought  by  the  fairies, 
she  flung  it  round  the  girl's  shoulders;  there  was  a 
hasty  snapping  of  scissors,  a  fevered  stitching;  a 
pinning  here,  a  pinning  there. 

"Enough,  enough  !"  cried  Mary-Nan. 

She  stood  before  a  long  pier-glass;  the  bunch  of 
candles  on  either  side  of  it  made  an  oasis  of  light  in 
the  great  room,  which  was  shrouded  as  if  the  dead 
still  lay  there.  Her  level  brows  were  drawn  to  lines 
of  gravity,  she  contemplated  herself;  her  fingers 
moved  with  unerring  deftness  —  not  a  thought  had 
she  of  her  who  had  so  often  mirrored  her  frail,  fatal 
beauty  upon  that  very  spot.  At  last  she  wheeled 
round  with  a  flashing  smile.  With  her  coronet  of 
glorious  hair,  dark  as  night ;  with  the  long  snowy 
folds  about  her,  she  looked  a  priestess:  nay,  with 
the  mist  of  lace  over  all,  a  bride  ! 

The  old  woman  clapped  her  hands. 


38  Flower  &  the  Orange 

"  Eh,  but  you're  bonny !  Her  that's  gane  couldna 
hold  a  candle  to  you.  Come  now,  lassie,  we've  been 
ower  long  —  and  tread  cannily,  or  we'll  have  a'  the 
hizzies  in  the  hoose  speering  on  this  daft  business. 
Nay,  I'll  gang  doun  with  ye." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  paused  and  caught  the 
girl's  arm,  trembling,  herself,  with  no  unpleasurable 
excitement :  "  Come  in  through  the  orangery,  Mary- 
Nan,  and  then  I  can  be  keeking  how  fine  you  look, 
wi'  the  train  spread  out  behind  you  as  you  walk 
across  the  dining-hall." 

So  through  the  scented  gloom  they  went.  The 
heels  of  Maria- Annunziata's  mules  clacked  on  the 
tiles  —  some  such  slippers  had  her  mother  worn,  no 
doubt,  as  she  tripped  under  her  lace  shawl  along  the 
white  pavement  of  Genoa  —  and  she  accommodated 
herself  to  them  with  unconscious  ease. 

Through  the  glazed  arches  of  the  orangery,  be- 
tween the  outstretched  branches,  glimmered  the 
lights  of  the  dining  table.  Voices  reached  them, 
much  laughter.  Both  the  women  halted,  their  hearts 
beating,  the  old  and  the  young,  with  almost  kindred 
anticipation.  All  at  once  a  drone  filled  the  air, 
succeeded  by  a  wild  skirl. 

"Gude  save  us!"  cried  Meg  testily,  "that's  yon 
heathen,  naked  Hieland  chap  of  my  Lord  Marquess ! 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  39 

Heaven  forgie  me,  I  could  wrax  the  neck  of  him  and 
his  bag  this  meenit !" 

She  had  counted  upon  a  completely  effective  en- 
trance for  Mary-Nan  in  all  her  finery.  But  Maria- 
Annunziata's  blood  was  dancing  with  all  the  inno- 
cent gaiety  of  her  mother's  race ;  the  wild  strains  were 
as  the  final  spur  to  her  intoxication. 

"The  pipes,  the  dear  pipes!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Ah,  many's  the  time  I've  stepped  to  them  up  in  the 
North!"  She  caught,  as  she  spoke,  at  a  bunch  of 
blossoms  shining  out  of  the  dimness.  "Now  I'm 
going  in,"  she  said:  and  she  went  straight,  head 
high,  the  flowers  at  her  breast,  her  heels  clapping, 
her  long  train  trailing  behind  her. 

Mistress  Drummond  looked  from  the  still-swaying 
orange  branch  to  the  retreating  figure  with  sudden 
misgiving. 

"Be  guid  to  us!"  she  muttered,  "I  misdoubt  the 
lassie's  head  is  turned  a'ready!" 

Looking  back  upon  it  all  afterwards,  Maria- Annun- 
ziata  many  a  time  marvelled  at  herself,  blushing  a 
hot  crimson  —  how  had  she  had  the  audacity !  But, 
that  night,  neither  embarrassment  nor  convention 
hampered  her.  As  she  told  Meg,  she  walked  in  upon 
them  all  as  though  she  had  been  somebody  else; 
and  she  felt  as  if  she  were  somebody  else,  a  great 


40  Flower  d*  the  Orange 

lady,  who  had  always  gone  in  rich  stuffs,  through 
grand  spaces,  with  fine  company. 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  her ;  a  deep  hush  fell. 
Only  Sandy  McDougal,  the  Marquess's  piper,  with 
fixed,  protruding  orbs,  sustained  his  airy  strut,  swell- 
ing himself  in  his  pride  like  a  blackcock  at  the  woo- 
ing. His  drone  and  his  skirl  rose  unchecked,  but 
subtly  altered  in  rhythm  to  the  swing  of  her  step,  to 
the  clap  of  her  little  heels. 

Then  up  sprang  Eagemesse ;  and  with  him  every 
man.  The  little  Marquess  dragged  a  chair  for  her. 
But  Eagernesse  gave  her  his  own  seat,  taking  her 
hand  in  that  way  of  his  that  seemed  rough,  yet  was 
gentle.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  through  his  nostrils, 
inhaling  the  mixed  fragrance  of  orange-blossom  and 
cedar-spice  that  surrounded  her.  His  face  was 
strangely  white,  she  thought ;  of  the  many  there  she 
was  conscious  only  of  him.  Into  the  golden  hazel 
of  his  eye  had  sprung,  first  surprise,  and  then  a  light- 
ning flash,  gone  ere  she  could  think  on  what  it  meant. 

In  a  mad  way  the  pipe-music  seemed  to  have  got 
into  her  blood.  Sometimes,  when  out  on  the  springy 
moorland,  with  the  mighty  west  wind  in  her  face,  she 
had  felt  her  pulses  leap  in  just  this  manner,  as  if  to 
some  mysterious  irresistible  call,  some  promise  of 
ecstasv. 


Flower  d'  the  Orange  41 

Eagernesse  filled  a  glass  and  thrust  it  into  her  hand. 
She  had  never  tasted  wine  before ;  but  she  put  her 
lips  to  the  rim,  deeming  it  uncivil  to  refuse.  Scarce 
a  mouthful  did  she  swallow  —  all  bubbles  and  sweet 
pungency,  yet  it  seemed  to  run  through  her  with  a 
singing  exhilaration ;  surely  no  seemly  beverage  for 
a  maid  !  She  set  down  the  glass ;  then  the  boy  who 
had  the  seat  on  the  other  side  of  her  —  he  with  the 
curly  hair  —  spoke.  She  wondered  why  there  was 
such  an  outbreak  of  laughter,  just  because  of  those 
two  or  three  civil  phrases.  He  went  steadily  on,  the 
small  cool  tones  that  matched  his  person  reaching 
her  through  clamour  of  pipes  and  voices:  — 

"May  I  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  you.  Miss  Mac- 
kenzie?" And,  as  she  shook  her  head:  "Is  cham- 
pagne not  to  your  liking  ?  Would  you  prefer  claret  ? 
Nay,  do  you  not  wish  to  drink  at  all  —  then  may  I 
tempt  you  with  some  fruit?" 

A  gentleman  with  dancing  eyes,  who  had  been 
staring  at  her  across  the  table,  gave  a  loud  laugh :  — 

"Hark  to  Dumb  Dumbarton!  Gadso,  if  there's 
tempting  to  be  done,  let  it  be  by  some  one  who  can 
grow  a  beard !" 

He  seized  the  basket  of  fruit  in  front  of  him  as  he 
spoke,  and  came  round  the  table,  to  drop  on  one  knee 
by  the  side  of  the  girl's  chair. 


42  Flower  d*  the  Orange 

This  was  the  signal  for  Damory  to  reach  for  the 
oranges,  and  Rob  for  the  grapes.  In  another  minute 
the  three  men  were  each  absurdly  kneeling  around  her. 
Maria- Annunziata  smiled  down  at  them.  They  were 
very  kind  and  very  merry,  to  be  sure ;  and,  as  inno- 
cently as  a  child,  she  found  pleasure  in  feeling  herself 
the  centre  of  admiring  attention.  All  the  while  the 
music  surged  round  and  round  the  table,  droning  like 
the  wind  in  the  forest,  with  ever  and  anon  the  wild 
exultant  cry  as  if  some  bird  had  broken  into  flight. 

"  Nay,  and  if  I  may,  I  would  like  an  orange  weel 
enough,"  she  said,  and  took  one  from  the  dish. 

He  who  proffered  it  had  a  narrow,  pale  face,  with 
narrow  eyes,  set  darkly ;  the  chin  that  rested  on  his 
tall  stock  had  thin  and  cruel  lines  about  it.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  lurch  that  flung  the  golden 
fruit  in  every  direction. 

"The  choice  is  for  me  ! "  he  cried.  He  had  a  high 
voice,  very  sweet.  "Out  of  your  chair,  my  Lord 
Marquess;  for  once  I  take  precedence." 

The  Marquess  rose  with  a  solemn  bow ;  and  Maria- 
Annunziata  thought  to  read  afiFront  on  his  boyish 
face.  Never  in  her  life  would  she  wilfully  hurt  a 
living  creature.  So,  very  quickly  and  pleasantly  she 
cried  to  him  that  she  could  very  well  like  a  pear,  too, 
if  he  would  peel  it  for  her.    And  when  laughter  ran 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  43 

loose  again,  she  thought  in  her  mind  that  these  great 
gentlemen  were  as  easy  to  mirth  —  aye,  and  as 
foolish  as  the  callants  in  the  village. 

But  one  laughed  not.  Eagernesse,  sunk  back  in  his 
chair,  was  staring  straight  before  him,  tapping  the 
table  with  restless  fingers. 

''The  poor  gentleman,"  said  the  girl  to  herself, 
"he's  thinking  on  her  that  left  him ! "  A  shadow  fell 
on  her  gaiety.  She  wondered  why  she  should  feel 
thus  sore  at  heart  to  see  him  brood,  and  why  the  pipe- 
strains  that  she  had  deemed  joyful  should  all  at  once 
pierce  her  with  their  lament. 

Then  he  who  had  first  knelt  before  her  spoke  in 
her  ear  so  close  that  she  started :  — 

"I  refuse  to  be  left  out  in  the  cold." 

Cold  !  His  face  seemed  all  glow  to  her,  with  these 
red  sparks  coming  and  going  in  his  eyes,  that  flicker 
of  nostril  and  quivering  lip,  like  the  play  of  little 
flames.  She  drew  back  —  though,  courteously,  she 
tried  to  keep  her  smile. 

"And,  indeed,"  she  cried,  "you  are  very  kind,  sir, 
but  I  must  even  abide  by  my  choice." 

Again  the  guffaw,  the  shouts.  Her  mouth  opened 
in  astonishment.     What  had  she  said  ? 

"Dumbarton,"  cried  Eagernesse,  as  sharply  as  a 
dog  snarls,  "stop  those  confounded  pipes  I" 


44  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

"She's  made  her  choice  —  oh  Gad!"  cried 
Damory,  rocking  himself  to  his  mirth. 

Unheeding,  Lord  Dumbarton  pressed  his  chair 
nearer,  and  laid  the  pear  he  had  been  delicately  peel- 
ing on  her  plate.  The  lean  jaw  of  Sir  Lucius  be- 
came suddenly  set. 

"Mark  ye.  Dumb,  I  am  the  first,"  he  cried. 

"Stop  those  pipes,  I  say!"  repeated  Eagernesse. 

The  order  caught  the  piper  in  full  blast ;  the  chanter 
dropped  from  his  mouth,  and  the  wind  of  his  self- 
conceit  seemed  to  go  out  of  him  as  dismally  as  the 
wailing  breath  from  his  bag.  He  rolled  an  eye  of 
indignation  at  his  chief.  But  the  latter  held  towards 
him  in  silence  a  brimming  quaigh.  Sandy  McDou- 
gal  was  fain  to  swallow  his  mortification  with  its 
contents,  and  strut  from  the  room  in  the  tallest  dig- 
nity he  could  muster. 

As  the  music  failed,  a  sense  of  loneliness  fell  on 
Maria-Annunziata.  She  was  no  longer  the  grand 
lady;  she  was  only  the  poor  minister's  daughter, 
dressed  up  in  dead  folk's  clothes  for  the  amusement 
of  the  laird's  idle  guests.  She  glanced  round  the 
table  piteously ;  truly  she  had  been  over-bold,  over- 
ready.  The  lights  dazzled  her;  the  fumes  of  the 
wine  in  the  air,  the  fierce  sweetness  of  the  orange- 
blossom  at  her  breast,  turned  her  sick.    Her  cheeks 


Flower  d*  the  Orange  45 

burned  because  of  the  gaze  of  all  those  eyes  that 
looked  at  her  so  strangely,  and  her  heart  was  cold 
because  Eagernesse  looked  at  her  no  more. 

"Fie,  what  a  cursed  set  of  ungallant  beggars  are 
we!"  cried  Dunure  of  the  dancing  eyes.  He  had 
drawn  his  chair  close  to  the  girl's,  almost  wedg- 
ing out  Lord  Dumbarton.  "We  are  scarce  like 
ever  to  have  such  a  toast  again !  A  health !  a 
health!' 

He  leaned  freely  over  her  shoulder  to  fill  a  glass  as 
he  spoke;  Teague  sprang  up,  swaying,  to  give  the 
company  the  benefit  of  the  inspiration  her  beauty 
had  brought  to  his  muddled  wits :  — 

"  Dark  as  the  mountain  shade, 
Fair  as  the  simmer  mune, 
Fair  as  the  night  of  June.  ..." 

The  flow  of  his  muse  was  drowned  in  tipsy  Rob's 
shouts :  — 

"A  health,  a  health !"  He  would  have  drunk  to 
his  mother's  dairy-wench  with  the  same  enthusiasm. 

Lord  Dumbarton  lifted  a  brimmer  in  silence ;  but 
Simon  Carmichael  never  moved.  All  stood  but  he. 
She  heard  the  clucking  of  the  wine  as  it  ran  in  gulps 
down  their  throats. 

It  was  old  Meg's  conviction  that,  at  this  particular 


46  Flower  0'  the  Orange 

moment,  the  devil  entered  completely  into  her  mas- 
ter's guests. 

"It  a'  came,"  she  opined,  "from  meddlin'  with  the 
clothes  that  belonged  to  the  dead.  Hech,  the  puir 
lost  soul !  She  was  angered  at  us  from  the  sair  place, 
and  she  sent  ane  to  avenge  her  —  and  only  that  there 
were  good  angels  about  — !" 

Within  the  orangery  the  old  woman  had  been  keep- 
ing guard.  She  rapped  against  a  pane,  shook  the 
glass  door,  in  the  hope  of  attracting  Mary-Nan's 
attention  and  beckoning  her  away.  But  the  girl 
sat  as  if  paralysed. 

It  was  after  the  drinking  of  that  last  bumper,  in- 
deed, that,  if  devil  there  were  among  them,  he  broke 
loose. 

"We  can't  fight  for  her,"  hiccoughed  Damory, 
"but,  dash  it  all,  we  can  toss  for  her !" 

In  the  midst  of  the  acclamation  that  followed, 
Eagernesse  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  murder  round 
the  table. 

"Who  told  you  she  was  to  be  tossed  for?" 

"Caw,  caw!"  cried  Dunure,  madly,  in  mimicry 
of  the  harsh  voice. 

Dumbarton  raised  his  rare  note :  — 

"Nay,  gentlemen,  our  host  is  in  the  right;  he 
promised  us  a  sight  to  toast,  a  hostess  to  drink  to  — 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  47 

no  more.  I  trust  no  one  of  us  has  so  far  forgot  him- 
self as  to  hanker  for  another  man's  property  —  and 
we  his  guests." 

"  Gad,  be  a  sportsman  — toss  for  her,  Eager- 
nesse !" 

"I'll  gie  ye  my  bay  mare  for  her,"  shouted  Rob  — 
"Red  Lass  out  of  Red  Douglas  and  Banshee  !" 

"  Give  me  but  an  hour  to  speak  for  myself,"  whis- 
pered Dunure  —  "and  you  may  ask  of  me  what  you 
will,  Simon  Carmichael." 

Teague,  alone,  sodden  after  that  last  cup,  said 
nothing. 

Carmichael  struck  the  table. 

"By  the  Lord!"  he  cried,  with  sneering  lip  — 
"what  a  pack  of  fine  fellows  I've  gathered  round  me 
to-night.  Faugh,  you  fools,  who  out  of  your  own 
rottenness  can  conceive  nothing  but  rottenness ! 
Was  it  not  told  you  that  a  lady  was  coming  down 
among  ye  —  is  it  not  a  lady's  privilege  to  have  her 
choice  ?  Let  her  have  her  choice  of  you  in  the  name 
of  heaven  or  hell !" 

Ere  he  had  finished  Dunure  had  boldly  flung  an 
arm  about  Maria-Annunziata.  Very  little  had  she 
understood  of  their  clamour;  but  the  most  inno- 
cent know  evil  by  the  horror  of  it.  And  this  touch 
upon  her  was  a  horror  beyond  bearing.    Her  blood 


43  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

uprose  with  a  fierce  anger  that  was  Hke  actual  fire. 
There  sprang  a  flash  as  of  flame  before  her  eyes. 

When  she  came  back  to  her  surroundings  a  cry 
was  ringing  in  her  ears.  In  her  hand  she  held  the 
silver  fruit-knife,  and  it  was  stained  with  crimson 
half  its  length.  Dunure,  his  hand  to  his  throat,  was 
glaring  at  her,  panting,  livid.  She  heard  a  silly, 
strangled  laugh  somewhere.  Then  there  was  a  ter- 
rible silence.  She  began  to  tremble,  still  holding  the 
red  blade. 

Eagernesse  walked  across  to  Dumbarton,  and  asked 
him  in  a  low  voice  for  his  dirk  —  which,  awe-struck 
and  sobered,  the  boy  unhooked  and  handed  to  him 
without  a  word.  Then  he  turned  to  Mari^-Annun- 
ziata  and  laid  the  weapon,  sheathed  as  it  was,  across 
the  carven  arms  of  her  chair. 

"  Gentlemen,  here  sits  the  lady  whom  —  if  she  so 
condescend  —  I  hope  to  make  my  wife.  He  who 
dares  to  cast  upon  her  a  look,  unbefitting  the  chosen 
of  Eagernesse,  shall  answer  for  it  to  me,  even  to- 
night." 

All  this  he  said  with  a  very  great  air.  Maria- 
Annunziata  cast  away  the  stained  knife ;  and,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  hands,  broke  into  tears. 

She  felt  his  touch  upon  her  shoulder.     She  knew 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  49 

it  was  his  touch ;  but,  for  the  rushing  in  her  ears  and 
the  bursting  pain  at  her  heart,  she  knew  very  little 
of  what  passed  next  —  never  knew  how  Dunure  tried 
to  curse  and  choked;  nor  how  Damory  tried  to 
laugh  again,  and  again  failed ;  how  Dumbarton  bowed 
very  deep  to  his  cousin,  and  craved  pardon  of  him 
and  of  her  like  the  honest  gentleman  he  was,  for  the 
offences  he  had  merely  witnessed;  how  Rob,  with 
one  look  at  the  dirk,  slunk  unsteadily  from  the  room ; 
nor  how,  with  his  head  sunk  in  dreadful  discomfort 
on  his  breast,  the  poet  was  snoring. 

"  Don't,  my  dear,  don't !"  said  Eagernesse,  as  she 
sobbed. 

The  compassion  in  that  altered  voice  stung  her. 
She  dropped  her  hands  and  sprang  to  her  feet ;  the 
dirk  fell  clattering  on  the  floor.  Down  the  front  of 
her  white  gown  was  an  ugly  smear  of  blood.  She 
looked  round,  her  lip  trembling,  large  tears  welling 
slowly  and  falling.     She  strove  to  steady  her  voice :  — 

"It  was  no  kind  deed,  gentlemen,  to  make  sport 
of  a  poor  country  lass.  Eagernesse,  I  maun  thank 
you  that  you  spoke  up  for  me  so  kind ;  but  O  !  — 
I  winna  hold  you  to  your  word  — " 

A  sob  rose  in  her  throat ;  blindly  she  ran  from  them. 

"She  passed  through  the  orangery  like  a  wild 


50  Flower  d'  the  Orange 

thing,"  said  Meg,  as  she  afterwards  narrated  the  cul- 
minating events  of  the  night.  "And  my  legs  were 
sae  waibly  beneath  me,  they  could  scarce  carry  my 
auld  body  up  the  stairs  after  her.  Fair  perplexed 
I  was  lest  it  should  be  my  duty  to  be  with  him  that 
had  swooned  within  after  the  stab  she  dealt  him  under 
the  chin.  Hech,  but  yon  was  a  terrible  business  — 
to  think  of  Mary-Nan,  the  meenister's  daughter  — 
eh,  sirs !  Yet  my  mind  misgave  me  sae  sair  for  the 
puir  lassie  and  my  ain  folly  in  bringing  her  doun  that 
—  'the  foul  fiend  mend  him!'  says  I  (that  I  should 
say  so !).  And,  troth,  I  think  I  was  as  daft  as  the  rest 
of  them  that  night.  Off  I  set  after  her,  the  sound 
of  her  sobbing  and  wailing  unco  pitiful  in  my  ears. 

"Midway  on  the  tower-stairs  there  comes  a  shriek 
from  the  nursery  that  gars  me  turn  cold ;  and  on  the 
top  of  me  falls  the  tawpie,  Elspeth,  who  had  been 
watching  by  the  bairn.  'The  ghaist,  the  ghaist!' 
she  squeals,  'the  ghaist  of  the  leddy,  a'  in  her  wed- 
ding gown,  wi'  bluid  on  it!'  .  .  .  And  with  that, 
having  found  someone  to  do  it  upon,  she  makes  a 
show  of  swounding ;  I  had  to  clout  her  soundly  on  the 
side  of  the  pate  to  ca'  the  senses  back  to  her.  And, 
as  was  to  be  expected,  that  roar  of  hers  woke  the 
bairn,  and  he  sets  up  a  pretty  rout  on  his  own  account 
— and  him  dreaming,  puir  laddie,  of  yon  black-faced 


Flower  o'  the  Orange  51 

English  wumman,  an'  calling  out :  *  Don't  beat  me, 
don't  beat  me !' 

"Weel,  he  was  soothing  doun,  as  I  clambered  wi' 
all  haste  up  the  stair  again,  and  I  kent  he  was  in 
Mary-Nan's  arms  —  for  as  wae  she  was  herself,  she 
would  never  let  the  bairn  greet  —  when,  who  should 
go  by  me,  with  a  leap  like  a  goat  up  the  crag's  side, 
but  Eagernesse  himsel' !  The  Lord  be  gude  to  us, 
but  that  was  a  nicht  of  hame-coming !  Weel,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  was  to  do  nowt  syne  my  master 
crossed  his  threshold  the  day  but  speer  on  his  doings ! 
But  the  truth  maun  be  told. 

"There  I  stood  again,  and  the  nursery  door  ajar, 
keeking  and  hearkening  wi'  a'  my  een  and  ears ! 
And,  sure  enough,  there  stood  Mary-Nan,  rocking 
and  cuddling  the  wee  bairn,  with  tears  running  down 
her  ain  face.  Ae  minute  Eagernesse  stood  and  glow- 
ered at  her,  and  the  next  he  was  close  till  her,  speak- 
ing —  eh,  ye  may  believe  me  when  I  tell  it  ye,  me 
that  knew  him  frae  the  hour  he  could  speak  at  all, 
I  never  heard  that  voice  frae  him. 

"*0,'  says  he,  *to  see  you  with  my  child !  That 
first  minute,'  says  he,  'I  saw  you  with  the  child,  I 
knew  in  my  heart.  .  .  .  Can  you  spare  me  a  hand 
from  the  bairn,  Maria- Annunziata,'  he  goes  on,  'for 
I  want  to  kiss  it  —  that  chaste  hand,  that  strong 


52  Flower  o'  the  Orange 

hand,'  he  says.  'Aye,  it  was  a  bitter  test  I  let  you 
go  through,  I  know  that.  But,  see  you,  I  am  a  hard 
man,  and  I  have  been  sore  betrayed,  and  I  grow 
mad  at  times.  Will  you  forgive  me?'  And  never 
a  word  out  of  her,  but  shivering  and  sighing,  and 
wee  Ronald  whimpering  in  between,  no  distress- 
fully, but  just  to  be  comforted. 

'' '  O,  my  Flower  o'  the  Orange,'  says  he  (aye,  queer 
words  he  had),  'when  you  came  in  with  those  blos- 
soms at  your  breast,  and  the  scent  of  the  cedar  about 
you  —  I  called  you  bride  in  my  heart  —  I  called  you 
wife  —  the  wife  I  had  dreamed  of  but  never  known. 
Do  you  think,'  he  says,  '  I  can  ever  let  you  go  again  ?' 
And,  as  still  she  answered  him  nought,  he  cries,  with 
a  summons  in  his  tone :  '  Maria- Annunziata,  I  think 
you  love  my  child.' 

"  At  that  she  turns  her  face  to  him  with  a  smile  in 
it  among  a'  the  tears.  Eh,  but  she  was  bonny,  even 
with  the  grief  upon  her ! 

"'Aye,'  she  says,  *I  love  the  bairn.' 

"  With  that  he  presses  up  to  her.  '  And  me,  Maria- 
Annunziata  ? ' 

"And  at  last  she  answers  him,  soft  and  steady: 
*0,  aye,'  says  she,  *I  could  very  well  love  you  too, 
Eagernesse.' 

"  I  saw  him  take  them  baith  into  his  arms,  her  and 
the  bairn.  .  .  .    Tut,  tut,  I'm  an  auld  fule !" 


THE  YOUNG   CONSPIRACY 


n 

THE  YOUNG  CONSPIRACY 

A  GREY  place,  in  sooth,  Edinburgh  town  seemed  to 
me,  fresh  as  I  was  from  the  sunshine  and  gay  colours 
of  France.  And  it  was  a  bleak  wind  that  came 
hustling  up  the  steep  street  when  I  reached  the 
corner  of  the  Canongate.  Yet  my  heart  was  blithe 
enough:  was  I  not  back  in  my  long-dreamed-of 
native  land  ?  My  own  master,  for  the  first  time  in 
twenty  years !  (My  own  master,  in  my  own  coun- 
try :  what  did  that  not  mean  for  me  !)  And  a  week 
or  so,  all  my  own,  before  passing  into  fresh  thralls. 

In  St.  Germains  and  Versailles,  as  you  may  guess,  a 
lad  in  the  Gensdarmes  Escossois,  with  his  mother's 
brother  keeping  guardian's  watch  over  him  the  while, 
sips  of  liberty  so  little  that  he  scarce  knows  the  taste 
of  it  upon  his  tongue.  And  further,  if  all  I  heard 
of  him  were  true,  my  noble  father  was  little  like  to 
give  me  doucely  the  run  of  my  youth  once  I  got  be- 
neath those  smoky  rafters  of  Craigmalloch  dimly 
recollected  from  the  hours  of  childhood. 

55 


56  The  Young  Conspiracy 

So  this  week  which  I  had  resolved  to  allow  myself 
in  Auld  Reekie  was  stolen,  as  it  were,  from  right- 
ful authority  —  all  by  the  good  fortune  of  a  mar- 
vellous favorable  wind  that  ran  us  into  Leith  harbour 
so  many  days  before  our  computation.  Here,  then, 
was  I,  with  all  the  joys  of  the  world  before  me; 
but  twenty,  as  I  have  told ;  free ;  a  returned  exile 
to  whom,  though  he  was  at  home,  everything  was 
yet  new  and  alluring.  A  stout  lad,  to  boot,  not  ill- 
looking,  fancy  busy  in  his  brain  and  springtime  in 
his  blood.  I  had  dropped  my  small  baggage  at  a 
decent -looking  inn  by  the  harbour ;  and  I  had  still 
the  sea-smell  in  my  nostrils,  even  after  my  long  walk, 
as  I  stood  under  the  Nether  Bow  Port  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  tall  street,  the  high-topping  houses 
on  either  side,  with  their  small  doors  and  many 
windows,  so  unlike  all  I  was  familiar  with,  and  all 
around  me  the  lilt  of  the  kindly  tongue. 

"  Now,"  says  I  to  myself,  "  shall  I  break  my  fast  in 
some  merry  tavern  !  And  after  that,  why,  I'll  go  with 
the  wind,"  says  I,  just  as  a  gust  caught  me.  And 
this  blew  me  into  the  High  Street,  whereup  I  walked 
towards  the  sunset,  casting  eager  eyes  about  for  a 
suitable  house  of  entertainment  and  already  reckon- 
ing what  I  should  order  after  the  monotony  of  the 
sea-fare. 


The  Young  Conspiracy  57 

By-and-by,  however,  as  I  went,  I  began  to  perceive 
that  between  the  pleasant  ease  with  which  a  French- 
man learns  to  take  his  life  and  the  attitude  of  my 
countrymen  towards  existence  there  is  a  singular 
difference.  The  folk  went  by  me  without  a  friendly 
word  upon  the  time  o'  day ;  without  even  a  glance  of 
curiosity,  absorbed  in  grave  —  nay,  it  seemed  to  me, 
in  sour  —  thought ;  or  deep  in  converse  with  some 
equally  serious  companion.  The  women,  hard-fa- 
voured as  they  were  hard-voiced,  cast  foul  water  into 
the  gutters,  and  shouted  to  their  children  from  the 
deeps  of  wynds,  threatening  dire  punishment.  The 
very  urchins,  I  thought,  played  with  an  air  of  pur- 
pose and  business;  kicked  and  cuffed  and  shrilled 
in  anger  at  each  other,  but  had  no  laughter.  There 
was  ne'er  the  stave  of  a  song  afloat  in  the  evening 
air ;  none  of  the  bustling  cheer  you  will  hear  all  over 
Paris  at  such  a  time,  when  pretty  wenches  trip  home 
from  work,  with  a  keek  of  the  eye  for  passing  ad- 
mirers; where  jolly  house-mothers  foregather  on 
their  doorsteps,  gossiping  in  the  deepening  light ;  and 
your  rotisseur  and  your  pdtissier,  your  sweep  or  your 
barber,  will  each  have  a  jest  for  you  as  you  go. 

Presently,  accosting  a  worthy-looking,  elderly  man 
who  came  towards  me  with  sober  mien  and  deliberate 


58  The  Young  Conspiracy 

step,  I  begged  of  him  to  direct  me  to  the  ordinary 
most  a  la  mode. 

He  surveyed  me  with  a  dark  look :  — 

"There  are  pits  enough  gaping  for  youths  and 
fools,"  said  he;  then  in  his  harsh  Scots;  "and  if, 
as  I  take  it  from  your  speech,  you  are  from  France, 
young  man,  doubtless  you  will  find  the  way  yourself 
without  my  pointing  it." 

With  which  civility  he  passed  on,  leaving  me  chilled 
in  my  merry  humour  and  stirred  in  my  temper. 

I  began  to  think  that  I  was,  in  truth,  playing  a  fool's 
part  in  seeking  a  frolic  in  this  over-godly  town. 
"These  are  the  wretches,"  said  I  to  myself,  in  a  new 
mood  of  bitterness,  "who  have  turned  out  their  law- 
ful King  and  called  in  a  stranger  to  rule  over  them, 
snuffling  texts  the  while  to  justify  the  traitor's  part !  " 

At  home,  at  least,  I  should  be  within  loyal  walls, 
however  sternly  ruled.  And  I  had  more  than  a  mind 
as  I  stood,  hungry  and  discontented,  to  throw  up 
my  project  and  set  my  face  forthwith  towards  the 
Highlands. 

Yet,  even  as  I  paused,  a  youth  swung  by  me, 
humming  under  his  breath  the  tune  of  a  loyal  song 
I  knew :  — 

"  Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming.   .    .   ." 


The  Young  Conspiracy  59 

(I  set  the  words  to  the  air  with  a  quick  pleasure,  as 
at  the  unexpected  meeting  of  an  old  friend.)  He  was 
followed  at  a  little  distance  by  a  couple  of  serving- 
men.  I  noticed  that  none  wore  a  cockade,  but  a 
dried  sprig  of  rowan  or  some  such  red-berried  tree,  in 
their  caps.  I  was  not  learned  enough  in  Scottish 
matters  (after  my  upbringing  in  exile)  to  be  able  to 
trace  the  badge,  as  I  deemed  it ;  but  that  here  was 
the  sign  of  a  high  house  I  thought  to  know. 

The  arrogant  glance,  the  tilt  of  the  head,  the  pride 
of  his  carriage,  the  fashion  in  which  the  youth  eyed 
me  passing,  as  if  it  were  my  duty  to  make  way  for 
him,  spoke  eloquently  enough.  Beyond  doubt  I 
should  have  resented  these  very  airs  of  superiority 
had  I  not  been  suddenly  and  singularly  attracted  by 
the  recklessness  of  his  face  —  by  that  very  de- 
fiance of  young  blood  that  flashed  at  me  as  he  went 
by,  that  swayed  in  the  rhythm  of  his  gait.  It  struck 
me  that  he  swung  the  full  skirts  of  his  coat  as  one 
more  familiar  to  the  kilt ;  that  he  cocked  his  hat  as 
it  were  a  bonnet,  and  carried  his  smallsword  as 
provokingly  as  any  claymore.  I  turned  and  stared 
after  the  three  a  moment  or  two,  then  started  in  pur- 
suit down  the  High  Street  once  more.  A  spark 
from  this  young  cock-of-the-walk's  joy  of  life  had 
set  my  own  inflammable  stuff  afire  again :  it  was  as 


6o  The  Young  Conspiracy 

if  a  jewel,  a  ruby,  had  glinted  at  me  out  of  the  mud 
of  that  sad  grey  town. 

The  lad  of  the  rowan  sprig  made  a  straight  course  of 
it  for  a  while ;  not  like  one  sauntering,  but  rather  one 
who  knows  well  where  he  is  going.  Just  before  reach- 
ing the  Nether  Bow,  he  suddenly  veered  down  a 
wynd  on  the  right,  with  his  retainers  in  full  tramp 
behind.  I  drew  up  close,  and  thought  myself  fortu- 
nate indeed  when  I  saw  that  the  cellar  entrance  into 
which  they  presently  plunged  was  that  of  a  tavern: 
the  sign  was  painted  over  the  door  —  "  The  Fox  and 
Grapes." 

I  shall  remember  that  sign  as  long  as  I  live :  the 
black  board  with  its  bunch  of  scarlet  fruit,  and  its 
fox  that  might  have  been  a  squirrel  for  the  jauntiness 
with  which  he  carried  his  brush.  And  the  tavern  it 
heralded  —  in  Paris  such  a  dismal  entrance  could 
only  have  led  to  a  coupe-gorge!  And  the  narrow 
black  street  running  down  hill,  only  its  highest 
windows  streaked  with  a  pale  sunshine  which  seemed 
to  bring  cold,  not  heat.  And  the  stone  steps,  worn 
cup-shape,  disappearing  into  the  murk  of  gaping 
doors,  whence  issued  savours  of  food  and  a  thin  blue 
reek. 

As  I  clattered  down  in  my  turn,  I  bethought  me 
of  my  grum  gentleman's  warning:  "There  are  pits 


The  Young  Conspiracy  6i 

enough  gaping  for  youths  and  fools."  And  I 
laughed.  Little  thought  I  that,  when  my  footsteps 
should  again  beat  these  worn  stones,  the  whole  of 
my  life  would  lie  changed  before  me. 

I  swaggered  into  the  cellar  with  as  good  an  imita- 
tion of  my  guide's  conquering  grace  as  I  could  muster 
in  the  uncertainty  of  my  passage  through  unaccus- 
tomed gloom.  A  lusty  wench,  with  red  hair  and  pale 
blue  eyes,  and  a  softness  of  voice  and  manner  that 
brought  back  memories  of  childhood  and  of  my  High- 
land nurse,  received  me.  She  motioned  me  to  a 
solitary  table,  over  which  she  passed  an  apron  that  I 
judged  —  the  day  being  Friday  —  had  seen  service 
throughout  the  week.     She  then  requested  my  will. 

With  the  tail  of  my  eye  on  Master  Rowan-Sprig,  I 
ordered,  at  hazard,  the  messes  she  suggested  in  her 
pretty,  insinuating  way.  Meanwhile  he  who  was 
evidently  the  master  of  the  establishment  attended  to 
the  wants  of  his  more  important  patron.  He  was  a 
burly,  elderly  man,  whose  chin  bore  as  dingy  witness 
to  Friday  as  did  my  wench's  apron.  He  made  a  great 
parade  of  mopping  the  gentleman's  table,  and  shifted 
a  wooden  salt  bowl  from  corner  to  corner.  But  I, 
intent  in  watching,  was  quick  to  apprehend  that  they 
conversed  earnestly  together,  and  that  in  the  Gaelic ; 


62  The  Young  Conspiracy 

in  which  tongue  I  was  not  so  proficient  as  my  uncle 
Craigmalloch  —  who  held  fast  to  the  old  traditions 
—  would  have  wished.  Thus  the  drift  of  their 
speech  escaped  me ;  yet  I  could  not  be  mistaken  that 
both  looked  towards  me  ever  and  anon,  sharply,  and 
as  though  expectantly.  Finally,  aloud  and  in  Eng- 
lish, the  host  said :  — 

"And  I've  not  been  forgettin'  your  honour's  lik- 
ing." And  caught  up  from  a  cupboard  a  flagon, 
darkly  incrusted  and  cob  webbed,  which  he  nursed  a 
second  in  both  hands,  and  deposited  on  the  table  as 
gently  as  if  it  had  been  a  baby. 

"A  man  cannot  have  too  good  wine  for  a  good 
toast ! "  cried  Rowan-Sprig.  His  voice  had  a  bright, 
imperious  ring  that  echoed  gratefully  in  my  ear. 
Again  he  flung  a  look  at  me,  which  I  returned  as 
bravely  and  invitingly  as  I  might.  I  was  burning 
to  have  my  knees  under  the  same  board,  and  to 
chink  a  glass  with  one  who  had  taken  my  youthful 
fancy  as  freshly  as  the  spring  wind. 

"  And  what  wine  will  your  honour  wish  ?  "  said  the 
soft  voice  of  the  girl  in  my  ear. 

"  I'll  have,"  cried  I,  starting  round  to  her,  "  a  bottle 
from  the  same  bin  as  yonder  gentleman." 

Her  pale  eyes  grew  round.  She  hesitated,  looked 
almost  frightened. 


The  Young  Conspiracy  63 

"The  old  clary?" 

"Why  not,  my  love?"  and  with  the  corner  of  my 
glance  upon  my  hero,  who  sat,  his  hand  encircling  a 
brimming  glass,  fixing  me  now  very  steadily.  "Why 
not  ?"  cried  I,  arrogant  young  fool  that  I  was,  think- 
ing myself  as  fine  a  fellow  in  the  gentleman's  eyes  as 
he  was  in  mine.  "If  wine  be  measured  here  by 
toasts,  shall  not  my  glass  be  of  the  best?" 

I  was  meaning  the  toast  to  my  native  land  and  to 
my  first  freedom,  and  (God  help  me  ! )  to  the  sudden 
desire  of  friendship  that  had  sprung  up  within  me. 
But  the  other  guest,  though  he  could  not  have  divined 
any  such  complicated  thought,  pricked  his  ears.  A 
second  still  he  measured  me.  Then  he  half  rose  and 
addressed  me  with  a  very  pretty  curtsey. 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  "the  old  clary  is  growing 
scarce.  And,  indeed,  when  heads  should  be  clear, 
'tis  better  to  share  a  bottle  than  to  drain  it  alone  — 
however  good  .  .  .  the  toast."  The  last  words  he 
said  slowly,  and,  as  I  had  good  cause  to  remember, 
with  peculiar  emphasis. 

My  answer  need  scarce  be  recorded.  I  made  him 
my  best  French  bow.  In  a  twinkling  my  wish  was 
accomplished :  I  was  stretching  my  legs  under  the 
same  table  as  those  arrogant  limbs  that  had  swung 


64  The  Young  Conspiracy 

the  coat-skirts  as  if  they  had  been  the  free  kilt ;  I  was 
clinking  my  glass  —  my  hand  trembled  —  with  that 
held  by  his  steady  fingers. 

"Take  my  lads  to  the  kitchen,  Duncan,"  said  the 
young  chieftain  to  mine  host,  "and  give  them  their 
due  fill,  but  no  more.  And,  as  this  gentleman  and 
I  evidently  have  matters  to  talk  over,  we  will  profit 
at  once  of  your  empty  hour." 

The  instant  we  were  alone,  my  entertainer  lifted  his 
glass ;  and,  his  bright  hazel  eyes  deep  in  mine,  "  From 
St,  Germains,"  he  said  in  a  sharp  whisper. 

"  'Tis  my  French  court  bow,"  thought  I  to  myself. 
And,  seizing  my  glass  in  my  turn — I  never  knew  what 
took  me  or  why  the  words  should  come  so  pat ;  'twas 
doubtless  from  some  vague  notion  of  reestablishing 
myself  a  true  Scotsman  in  his  estimation,  in  spite  of 
foreign  ways :  — 

"From  St.  Germains,"  I  said,  "to  Hol)Tood." 

Hereupon  the  watchful  intensity  that  sat  so  cu- 
riously on  his  boyish  face  vanished.  He  drew  a 
sharp  breath.     His  eye  gleamed. 

"So  may  it  be  !"  he  cried  solemnly.  And  I  (who, 
for  a  fool,  had  intimate  inklings)  realised  that  the 
toast  was  no  other  than  a  proper  loyal  one ;  upon 
which,  none  being  more  loyal  than  myself,  I  thought 
myself  bound  to  look  mighty  knowing ;  to  echo  his 


The  Young  Conspiracy  65 

"So  may  it  be!"  in  a  tone  of  mysterious  ardour, 
and  to  quaff  my  beaker  with  all  the  ceremony  con- 
ceivable. 

I  was  rolling  the  taste  of  the  wine  upon  my  tongue 
when  I  found  my  companion's  glance  seeking  mine 
with  something  of  impatience. 

"You  landed  this  morning?"  queried  he. 

"Ay,"  quoth  I,  with  mortification,  thinking  I 
must  indeed  bear  "foreigner"  stamped  in  my  air. 

"You're  before  your  time,"  he  added,  drawing  his 
watch. 

"Ay,"  said  I,  speaking  of  the  fair  winds;  "'tis  all 
a  piece  of  mighty  luck." 

And  when  I  had  said  it,  I  began  to  wonder  how  he 
could  know;  whether,  among  all  the  mystery  with 
which  it  had  pleased  my  uncle  to  surround  my 
departure,  it  had  been  his  care  to  set  friends  to 
watch  my  arrival?  And  this  thought  so  displeased 
me  that  the  pleasure  in  my  new  acquaintance  began 
to  fade,  and  I  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Luck?"  echoed  he,  with  a  quick  frown. 
"  'Twould  be  a  dangerous  comrade  to  trust !  I 
marked  you,  sir,  from  the  first,  in  the  Lawnmarket." 

"And  I  you,  sir,"  cried  I,  flattered  out  of  my  sus- 
picions.   I  smiled  as  I  spoke.    That  brave  face  of 


66  The  Young  Conspiracy 

his  had  not  yet  relaxed.  He  turned  it  now  upon  me 
with  a  deeper  gravity  and  seemed  to  wait  for  me  to 
speak  again. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  I,  after  a  pause,  more  to  cover  the 
embarrassment  gathering  upon  me  than  from  any 
great  hunger  (for  the  strong  wine,  the  reek  of  the 
place,  and  something  intangibly  strange  that  was 
growing  into  the  situation  had  cut  my  fine  appetite 
of  a  little  while  ago)  —  "I  wonder  when  the  slut 
with  the  red  hair  will  condescend  to  bring  me  those 
coUops?  " 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  my  comrade,  and  his  im- 
patient hand,  that  had  barely  restrained  itself  these 
last  moments,  began  to  tap  the  table.  "Surely,  sir, 
your  collops  ..."  He  broke  off,  catching  back  an 
evidently  fierce  temper  with  a  strong  effort  of  will. 
"  You  are  right  to  be  cautious,  no  doubt.  But  surely 
— "  Again  he  paused,  pushed  the  empty  glass  and 
the  bottle  on  one  side,  and  leaned  across  to  me. 
"Did  all  go  off  well?    Was  the  landing  safe?" 

I  stared  at  him.  Was  my  first  Scottish  friend,  my 
pretty  lad,  a  mere  lunatic  after  all  ? 

"Why  doubtless,"  I  laughed,  "since  I  am  here." 

"And  .  .  .  he?"     His  lips  were  nearly  on  my  ear. 

"He?"  I  echoed,  and  from  sheer  vagueness 
laughed  again. 


Thi  Young  Conspiracy  67 

Without  a  moment's  transition,  fury  leaped  out  of 
his  face.  I  never  saw  such  a  gamecock  for  sudden 
anger.  His  lips  trembled ;  but  once  more  some  strong, 
mysterious  motive  forced  him  to  curb  his  passion. 
He  hastily  poured  himself  a  fresh  glass  of  wine  and 
swallowed  it  in  gulps.  Then,  dashing  the  red  drops 
from  his  lips :  — 

"By  the  Rood,  you  are  over-young  to  be  so  pru- 
dent!" he  said  constrainedly.  "But  doubtless  you 
are  right,  and  you  put  my  recklessness  to  the  shame. 
Let  us  then  exchange  credentials  before  another 
word  passes." 

Now  it  may  seem  strange  that  even  at  this  point  I 
should  fail  to  perceive  that,  by  my  petulant  spring 
humour,  I  had  been  drawn  into  the  inner  whirl  of 
some  conspiracy.  But,  as  my  story  will  show,  if  I 
was  quick  of  impulse,  I  was  somewhat  slow  of  appre- 
hension. Naturally,  like  all  right-thinking  sprigs  of 
the  time,  my  highest  aspirations  pointed  towards  the 
day  when  the  rightful  standard  should  be  raised  once 
again  in  the  old  country ;  when  out  of  the  bonny  glens 
the  faithful  lads  should  gather  to  it  —  a  day  only 
the  more  ardently  yearned  for  since  the  failure  of  the 
Roquefeuille  expedition  against  the  English  coast  last 
year.  But  whenever  I  had  broached  the  subject  to 
Craigmalloch  I  had  been  met  by  the  quiet  phrase: 


68  The  Young  Conspiracy 

"We'll  bide  our  time  ! "  Moreover,  my  head  was  full 
this  evening  of  my  own  small  importance.  The 
thought  had  taken  possession  of  me  that  here  was  some 
young  nobleman,  some  kinsman,  maybe,  who  knew 
more  of  me  than  I  of  him,  and  that  his  irritation  arose 
from  what  he  doubtless  took  as  an  assumption  of 
ignorance  on  my  part.  "  Foreign  airs ! "  I  had  seen 
a  few  visitors,  fresh  from  the  North  country,  bristle 
with  sensitive  pride  on  the  subject  of  these  same  airs, 
without  which  (they  averred)  their  Frenchified  coun- 
trymen  of  the  Scottish  Guards  could  not  as  much  as 
pass  the  time  of  day  to  them. 

Therefore  I  deemed  this  a  fair  opening,  at  last, 
for  the  smoothing  of  matters  out  between  us,  and 
my  smile  was  ingratiating  as  I  answered  him :  — 

"  Credentials  ?  Willingly,  my  dear  sir,  so  that  you 
gratify  me  first  with  yours." 

His  eye  widened  upon  me  as  I  spoke ;  in  it  no  longer 
that  sparkling  anger  —  which,  so  far  from  offend- 
ing, had  added  to  his  attraction  —  but  a  dark  sus- 
picion. And,  as  he  looked,  to  suspicion  succeeded 
fury. 

"Impostor!"  he  shouted.  "Spy!"  and  was  at 
my  throat. 

I  had  but  time  to  see  murder  in  his  look,  and  to  rise 
to  meet  it  standing.    We  had  a  silent  death-grapple ; 


The  Young  Conspiracy  69 

and  then  I  shook  him  off.  He  raised  a  second  screech 
before  he  was  for  me  again :  — 

"  Duncan !  Robbie !  Here,  lads !  A  spy,  a 
traitor!" 

Whether  it  was  the  meanness  of  his  calling  for  aid 
when  he  had  only  one  to  deal  with,  or  whether  that 
tussle  for  sheer  life  had  roused  the  fighting  devil 
within  me  —  you  have  had  it  from  me  that  my  in- 
stincts are  quicker  than  my  reason  —  but  here  a  rage 
such  as  I  had  known  but  seldom  before  in  my  life- 
time came  upon  me.  Perhaps,  if  you  want  to  exam- 
ine closer,  there  was  something  of  the  fear  of  fear  in  it. 
For  was  I  not  here,  in  a  hideous  dilemma,  under  as 
odious  a  stigma  as  can  threaten  a  man,  and  like  to 
leave  my  life  in  it  ?  My  sudden  enemy  had  his  blade 
out  as  he  shouted.  I  cannot  recall  to  mind  how  I 
closed  with  him ;  but  the  next  instant  I  had  a  weapon 
in  my  hand  and  had  struck  with  it.  With  a  deep 
groan  he  staggered,  and  then  fell  across  the  table. 

The  fury  in  my  brain  cleared.  I  had  a  vision  of  the 
stillness  of  that  young  body,  the  overturned  wine 
bottle,  and  the  two  reds  slowly  mingling ;  of  the  burst- 
ing open  of  the  kitchen  door,  and  of  the  white  face 
of  my  sandy  wench  peering  in  upon  us.  She  raised 
a  loud  wail ;  and  I  heard  an  answering  clamour  far 
within.     I  looked  at  the  blade  in  my  hand,  dark  half- 


7©  The  Young  Conspiracy 

way  to  the  hilt :  it  was  not  mine.  I  had  struck  him 
with  his  own  sword !  At  this,  I  know  not  why,  the 
fear  I  feared  leaped  upon  me.  I  cast  the  bloody 
thing  from  me. 

"  Awa' with  ye  ! "  cried  a  voice.  It  was  the  girl's. 
God  knows  for  what  reason  she  took  the  stranger's 
part.  She  clapped  the  door  to  behind  her,  and  held 
it  with  both  hands.  I  saw  the  terror  of  my  fate  in 
her  piteous  eyes. 

I  ran  out  of  the  black  room,  up  the  steps  into  the 
lane,  and  down  into  its  deeper  shadows.  As  I  turned 
the  first  corner  I  heard  the  hue  and  cry  begin ;  and, 
my  heart  beating  against  my  ribs,  I  fled  at  first  blindly, 
like  a  hare  in  an  open  field — from  shadow  to  shadow 
in  a  mere  instinct  of  concealment. 

After  a  while,  however,  an  extraordinary  lucidity 
succeeded  to  stupid  panic.  All  my  faculties  seemed 
to  concentrate  into  cunning.  I  halted  a  second,  and 
deliberately  took  my  bearings ;  then  I  doubled  round 
the  first  opening;  traversed  a  network  of  lanes; 
emerged  into  an  empty  court.  Here,  catching  sight 
of  a  gaping  doorway,  I  dived  behind  one  of  the  great 
panels.     It  was  an  inspiration. 

I  heard  the  rush  pass  by,  the  hubbub  die  away ; 
waited  yet  awhile  to  taste  the  luxury  of  shelter  and  to 
let  my  panting  breath  subside.    Then  I  stepped  forth 


The  Young  Conspiracy  71 

again.  Though  I  strove  to  assume  a  great  air  of  com- 
posure, even  of  swagger,  as  of  a  young  gentleman 
whose  pleasure  it  was  to  take  the  air  hatless,  it  was 
now  I  began  to  feel  a  kind  of  trembling  in  my  knees 
and  a  general  chill  misery. 

Was  it  fair  that  such  misfortune  should  overtake 
an  honest  lad,  who  sought  but  a  spring  adventure  ? 
"There  are  pits  gaping  for  youths  and  fools  !"  ... 
Had  the  old  man  cursed  me  ?  or  was  Edinburgh  indeed 
so  dangerous  a  place  that  the  mere  cracking  of  a  bot- 
tle must  be  fraught  with  death  and  disaster  ?  There 
was  no  one  about  to  witness  how  ill  my  attempts  at 
jauntiness  accorded  with  my  distress.  I  was  in  a 
dingy  courtyard,  deep  and  dank  as  a  well,  dominated 
on  three  sides  by  tier  upon  tier  of  grey  masonry 
studded  with  black  windows.  Beyond  the  archway 
ran  the  lane,  dark  and  narrow  and  slimy.  The  sky 
scarce  gave  light  enough  to  make  visible  the  melan- 
choly scene.  There  was  but  a  single  gleam  for  the 
eye  to  rest  on :  a  narrow  door  in  the  main  building 
on  the  other  side  of  the  court  was  open,  and  through 
it  shone  a  peep  of  green. 

In  such  plights  as  mine,  the  most  reasonable  must 
needs  be  guided  by  chance.  I  cast  another  desperate 
look  about  me,  and  then  set  my  steps  for  that 
tremor  of  budding  foliage. 


72  The  Young  Conspiracy 

And  so  it  was,  once  again,  the  wanton  humour  of 
spring  that  made  me  enter  upon  the  second  act  in  the 
strange  and  tangled  drama  of  my  first  day's  freedom. 


The  beckoning  of  the  green  brought  me,  through 
the  narrow  stone  passage  of  the  house,  into  a  broader 
lane  (which  I  now  know  as  Mary's  Wynd).  One 
side  of  the  road  was  dominated  by  the  usual  row  of 
those  bleak  houses  of  which  I  was  growing  heartily 
sick.  But  on  the  other  ran  walls  of  uneven  height, 
broken  by  gateways;  and  from  over  the  top  of  the 
stonework,  in  the  afterglow,  came  glimpses  of  blos- 
soming fruit  trees,  gushes  of  heady  fragrance. 

Now,  of  course  my  sensible  plan  was  first  to  seek 
a  hatter  in  the  more  noted  part  of  the  town,  where  a 
fugitive  might  scarce  be  looked  for ;  thence  to  win  my 
way  back  to  my  harbour  inn,  and  set  face  for  home 
with  all  speed.  Yet  I  went  up  the  street  by  the  side 
of  the  gardens ;  lingering,  here  where  the  tide  of  April 
had  flung  a  foaming  wave  over  the  garden  barriers, 
there  to  peer  in  through  a  half-open  door  at  nod- 
ding daffodils  or  at  a  sweep  of  greensward.  But 
whereas  an  hour  ago  the  call  of  the  spring  to  my 
blood  had  been  all  hot  and  blithe,  now  it  filled  me 


The  Young  Conspiracy  73 

with  melancholy  unutterable.  Once  again,  in  fancy, 
I  saw  the  lad  who,  in  my  eyes,  had  embodied  all 
the  pride  of  life,  come  swinging  down  the  High 
Street;  met  the  glint  of  his  handsome  eyes  and 
heard  the  lilt  of  the  old  song;  marked  the  rhythm 
of  his  step;  then  saw  him,  a  broken  thing,  cast 
across  the  table  over  which  our  glasses  had  clinked 
fellowship. 

"  LitUe  wot  ye  ivha's  coming." 

As  softly  as  the  scent  of  the  blossoms  from  the 
hidden  parterres  to  my  nostrils,  came  a  tune  —  his 
tune  —  to  my  ears.  My  guilty  heart  shuddered. 
It  was  so  faint,  so  intangible,  yet  so  distinct,  it 
might  have  been  his  spirit  mocking  me  on  the 
breeze : — 

"  Litile  wai  ye  who's  coming: 
McGilvrey  of  Drumglass  is  coming." 

I  started,  and  looked  round  over  my  shoulder. 
The  street  was  empty:  — 

"  The  Cam'rons  and  McLeans  coming; 
A'  the  dunywastles  coming." 

I  think  I  swayed  as  I  walked  on  again.     And  now 


74  The  Young  Conspiracy 

the  stave  pursued  me,  soft  yet  insistent.  It  was  a 
woman's  voice ;  and  the  words  were  crooned  rather 
than  sung.  It  seemed  to  me,  though  I  had  neither 
time  nor  composure  for  reflection,  that  I  must  obey 
the  call,  or  signal,  whichever  it  was.  I  came  back 
a  few  steps :  — 

"  The  Drummonds  and  McDonalds  coming; 
Little  wat  ye  who's  coming." 

In  the  opening  of  the  door  where  I  had  paused  to 
gaze  absent-mindedly  on  the  daffodils,  now  stood  a 
woman.  She  had  a  tartan  shawl  flung  over  her 
head,  but  not  so  closely  as  to  hide  the  powder  of 
her  massed-up  curls.  Out  of  the  rich  hues  of  the 
setting,  under  the  mist  of  the  hair,  dark  eyes  were 
eagerly  fixed  upon  me.  I  noticed  little  else  then, 
except  that  her  face  was  pale  and  small  and  that 
the  hand  which  held  the  folds  under  her  chin  was 
delicate  as  ivory.  As  I  approached  she  flung  the 
door  wide ;  and,  dropping  her  shawl,  she  stretched 
out  both  hands  to  me. 

"Oh,  come  in,  come  in!"  she  cried.  She  spoke 
as  she  sang,  in  a  sweet  monotonous  drawl ;  yet  there 
was  a  desperate  urgency  in  her  gesture,  a  brilliant 
excitement  in  the  dark  eyes.  I  hesitated.  From 
bewilderment  to  bewilderment  this  day  was  leading 


The  Young  Conspiracy  75 

me.  She  caught  my  wrist  with  that  little,  fine  hand ; 
it  had  strength  in  it,  but  it  was  more  the  passion  of 
her  gaze  which  compelled  me.  I  let  myself  be  drawn 
into  the  inclosure  and  watched  her  close  the  door 
and  push  the  bolt.  Then  she  stood  with  her  back 
against  it,  finger  on  lip,  panting  a  little. 

As  I  gazed  stupidly  I  heard  a  rumour  grow  in  the 
street  without  and  some  shouting ;  then  running  foot- 
steps pass  up  and  beyond  us,  then  drop  away  again 
into  the  distant  hum  of  the  city.  Still  she  stood  a 
moment  or  two  —  the  taper  finger  at  her  pretty 
mouth,  the  laces  and  silks  of  her  gown  a-fluttering 
faintly  with  her  quickened  breath.  Her  image  was 
burnt  into  my  heart  and  brain  in  that  hour  of  my 
dangerous  adventure.  I  have  but  to  close  my  eyes 
to  see  her  again  as  I  saw  her  then — the  pointed  face, 
with  its  witty,  delicate  lines ;  the  curving  mouth,  with 
its  grave  upward  curl,  as  of  inquiry;  the  eyes,  so 
dark  under  the  powdered  hair,  filled  with  so  radiant 
a  light  of  courage  and  devotion.  I  can  see  the  faint 
blue  and  white  lines  of  her  silk  dress  and  the  arch  of 
her  most  slender  foot. 

"Hounds!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "They  were 
close  on  the  scent  indeed!  .  .  .  Oh,  sir — "  The 
sweet  drone  of  her  voice  was  broken  as  by  a  sob. 
"If  I  had  not  been  on  the  watch  .  .  .  !    Ah,  but 


76  The  Young  Conspiracy 

I  knew  it  was  you  !  Hush  — "  as  I  tried  to  speak ; 
"not  a  word  !    Oh,  you  are  so  pale,  so  exhausted  !" 

The  tenderness  of  her  glance  stirred  me  with  an 
agony  of  self-pity.  I  was  but  a  lad  after  all,  and  had 
done  and  suffered  cruel  things  that  day. 

"Would  God,"  I  exclaimed  bitterly,  "I  had  never 
set  foot  on  this  treacherous  shore  —  and  it  my  own 
land!" 

She  gave  a  cry  like  a  hurt  dove :  — 

"Ah  no,  sir,  it  breaks  my  heart!  Here  you  are 
on  loyal  ground  —  your  own  ground  —  with  your 
own.  Oh,  we  must  have  failed  somehow  in  fore- 
thought and  prudence  .  .  .  but  not  in  our  devo- 
tion!" 

And  the  singular  creature,  the  passion  of  whose 
speech  and  movement  struck  me  in  ever  quainter 
contrast  with  the  changeless  soft  note  of  her  voice, 
caught  up  the  tartan  shawl  where  it  lay  on  the  path, 
and  hurried  to  spread  it  upon  the  steps  that  led  up 
into  the  mansion.     And,  glancing  back  at  me :  — 

"No  fear  of  treachery  here,"  she  said;  "walk  on, 
sir,  and  enter  your  house."  Then  voicelessly :  "Oh, 
my  liege  !"  she  breathed. 

"  Madam ! "  I  exclaimed,  the  whole  misconception, 
as  absurd  as  it  was  dangerous  and  tragic,  flashing  at 
last  upon  me.      "Madam,  I  cannot  permit  you  — " 


The  Young  Conspiracy  77 

But  freakish  fate  willed  it  otherwise.  There  was  a 
shout  once  again  in  the  street.  Someone  was  hoarsely 
calling:  "This  way,  this  way!"  and  there  came  a 
clatter  of  rushing  feet.  The  old  panic  seized  me. 
Let  those  who  have  cleverer  minds  and  stronger 
nerves  than  myself  blame  me.  It  was  no  moment  for 
explanations.  Bowing  my  head,  I  set  foot  upon  the 
tartan  spread  for  the  son  of  a  King  and  entered  — 
unwilling  impostor  —  into  that  house  of  loyalty. 

Conceive  me,  then,  introduced  into  an  apartment 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  overlooking  the  same  strip 
of  green  garden.  The  lady,  mere  girl  as  she  was, 
seemed  mistress  of  the  establishment.  We  were 
crossed  by  some  servants,  to  whom  she  gave  orders. 
On  the  topmost  passage,  an  old  woman  in  a  white  cap 
met  us,  and  flung  out  her  hand  with  a  quavering  ges- 
ture of  inquiry. 

*'Ay,  Meenie,"  said  my  guide,  "the  visitor  has 
come."  The  other  dropped  an  obeisance  to  me  as 
before  a  sacred  shrine. 

"Glory  be  to  God,  Miss  Rachel !"  she  cried. 

Rachel !  The  name  pleased  my  ear.  Together, 
the  old  and  the  young,  they  brought  me  into  the 
guest  chamber,  with  a  reverence  that  makes  me  blush 
even  now  to  think  on ;  and  there  they  left  me.  I 
let  myself  drop  into  the  great,  carved  oak  chair,  with 


78  The  Young  Conspiracy 

its  high  back  and  its  blazon  tapestry,  glad  of  the  soli- 
tude, trying  to  think,  to  plan.  Yet  there  was  but 
one  course  open  to  me. 

"I  shall  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  story," 
said  I  to  myself.  "She  will  forgive  me;  my  name 
will  be  warrant  for  me :  none  of  my  house  were  ever 
doubted." 

Presently  —  for  to  be  young  is  to  be  all  despair  or 
all  hope  —  I  saw  myself  performing  prodigies  of 
valour,  the  leading  spirit  of  a  great  plot,  inspired 
by  the  eyes  of  the  sweetest  and  fairest  of  conspir- 
ators. 

She  scratched  at  the  door,  like  a  deliberate  mouse, 
and  came  in,  followed  by  old  Meenie,  who  bore  a 
tray  with  wine  and  viands.  I  had  been  so  full  of  my 
plans  for  self -revealing,  and  was  now  so  disappointed 
to  see  her  enter  accompanied,  that  unconsciously  I 
riveted  another  link  in  my  chain  by  remaining 
seated,  as  one  who  has  never  served  himself.  I 
have  thought  often  since  of  my  folly.  There  is  no 
worse  or  more  easy  cowardice  than  that  of  silence; 
no  more  fatal  lie  than  the  suppression  of  the  truth. 
What  would  it  have  mattered,  after  all,  had  twenty 
old  women  heard  me  shamed,  having  to  shame  my- 
self before  that  single,  pure  and  ardent  soul?  I 
dallied,  while  Rachel  served  me  to  wine,  with  those 


The  Young  Conspiracy  79 

airs,  at  once  reverential  and  tender,  that  were  beau- 
tiful and  agonising  to  me  to  witness.  As  I  drank, 
revolving  my  speech  upon  my  tongue,  she  addressed 
me  —  and  my  fate  was  sealed. 

"You  must  forgive,"  she  said,  "that  neither  of  my 
brothers  is  here  to  attend  upon  you.  Julian  is 
abroad  at  the  harbour-side,  watching ;  and  Alistair 
has  just  been  brought  home  to  us,  sorely  wounded." 

My  teeth  clicked  against  the  glass.  "Good 
God!"  I  exclaimed,  a  horrible  suspicion  falling 
like  a  cloud  upon  my  brain. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl.  Her  soft  voice  went  on  un- 
inflexed,  but  the  eyes  were  fierce  between  tears  ever 
welling  and  ever  burnt  up,  unshed.  "There  is  a 
traitor  at  work  somewhere.  A  spy,  who  pretended 
to  be  your  messenger,  met  Alistair  at  the  appointed 
place  and  when  unmasked  tried  to  murder  him. 
They  have  just  brought  my  brother  back  from  the 
tavern.  It  is  a  dangerous  wound,  and  he  is  now 
unconscious." 

I  sat  petrified. 

"What  a  misfortune !"  I  stammered  at  last. 

"Ay,  indeed,  for  Alistair  is  the  cleverest  of  us  all. 
And  the  villain  has  escaped.  The  traitor !  —  oh 
could  I  but  reach  him !" 

"What  would  you  do  with  him.  Miss  Rachel?" 


8o  The  Young  Conspiracy 

I  spoke  as  though  in  a  dream.  Beneath  these  accu- 
mulated blows  of  fate  I  was  as  one  struck  silly. 

"I  would  kill  him!"  said  she. 

She  cooed  the  words  after  her  fashion,  in  the  voice 
of  a  dreaming  dove.  But  I  saw  how  the  ivory  hand 
was  clenched;  how  the  eyes  flamed;  into  what  a 
thin,  vindictive  line  the  curving  lips  straightened 
themselves.  I  had  no  doubt  that  she  spoke  her 
heart.  Ah,  it  was  not  the  blade  in  her  grasp  I 
dreaded,  but  the  scorn  in  her  glance.  I  should  have 
cared  very  little  to  lose  my  life,  then ;  but  to  save  it 
I  could  not  have  spoken  the  word  that  was  to  cast 
me  so  low  before  her. 

The  passion  left  her  face;  gentleness  came  back 
to  her  glance.  "But  indeed,"  she  told  me  then, 
"there  can  be  no  sorrow  in  this  house  to-day,  since 
you  are  safe.  And  from  what  peril !  I  knew  in  my 
heart  you  were  in  danger:  all  the  morning  I  could 
not  rest.  It  was  Heaven  sent  me  to  watch  at  the 
gate.  Our  Alistair  cannot  die,  now  that  you  are 
under  his  roof!" 

Had  I  been  he  whom  she  deemed  me  to  be,  what 
sweet  comfort  might  I  not  have  drawn  from  such 
courage  and  loyalty !  I  turned  my  head  away.  I 
think  I  groaned. 

At  this  she  whispered  something  to  the  servant. 


The  Young  Conspiracy  8i 

The  old  woman  turned  upon  me  the  canny  eye  of  the 
nurse  who  has  had  the  rearing  of  many  a  man.  I 
caught  the  words :  — 

"  Puir  laddie  —  fair  worn  out !" 

"Oh,  you  must  rest,"  murmured  Rachel  then  to 
me.  "Oh,  I  have  done  wrong  to  trouble  you  with 
our  trouble.  You  can  sleep,  without  a  thought,  to 
be  strong  for  to-morrow's  great  day.  God  is  above 
us,  the  cause  is  just,  we  are  your  true  servants." 

'Twas  some  devil,  surely,  that  moved  me  to  play 
on  my  part.  It  galled  my  vanity  to  see  the  disap- 
pointment on  her  face,  she  who  had  had  so  brave 
a  front  for  her  brother's  danger.  In  sooth,  I  made 
but  an  unprincely  prince,  for  such  a  sacrifice,  such 
fanaticism  of  devotion !  I  rose  from  my  chair  and 
bowed,  with  all  that  French  formality  which  had 
already  helped  to  my  undoing. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "your  trouble  is  our  trouble." 
(Ay,  to  think  of  the  guile  of  that  Royal  plural,  and 
of  the  hypocrite  I  was  in  my  blood-guiltiness !)  "  My 
debt  to  this  house  is  great ;  pray  God  I  may  one 
day  discharge  it !  "  My  voice  trembled.  This  was 
the  truth  at  last,  and  deeply  felt. 

The  old  ardour  and  joy  leaped  back  into  her  liq- 
uid glance.  I  extended  my  hand :  I  felt  her  delicate 
fingers  touch  it  with  butterfly  lightness.    Then  she 


82  The  Young  Conspiracy 

curtseyed  deep  before  me;  and  as  she  curtseyed 
kissed  the  hand  that  had  shed  her  brother's  blood. 

The  room  reeled  with  me.  Confusedly  I  saw 
her  withdraw  backwards.  How  the  quaint  creature 
seemed  to  have  studied  Court  ceremonial !  At  the 
door  once  again  she  sank  into  a  reverence,  her  silks 
ballooning  around  her,  and  next  I  was  alone. 

I  flung  myself  into  the  great  chair  and  buried  my 
face  in  my  hands.  What  a  mortal  coil  was  this! 
Had  I  been  the  spy  yon  poor  Alistair  had  deemed 
me,  instead  of  a  simple  lad  between  the  devil  and 
the  deep  sea,  striving  to  save  his  credit  as  best  he 
might,  it  would  have  gone  easier  with  me.  As  there 
is  a  heaven  above  me,  it  was  never  that  I  feared 
to  die,  but  that  I  could  not  die  this  dog's  death  of  a 
traitor.  Stung  by  misery,  I  sprang  to  my  feet  again, 
and  wandered  restlessly  about  the  room,  seeking  the 
issue  by  which,  within  a  few  hours,  my  ignominious 
flight  must  be  accomplished.  For  to  fly  in  the  night 
was  the  only  resource  my  base  plight  left  me. 

A  curse  on  these  Edinburgh  houses,  bleakly 
rising  skywards  as  if  in  imitation  of  the  barren  cliffs ! 
A  curse  on  the  senseless  custom  of  setting  the  guest 
chambers  among  the  clouds,  where,  in  civilised  cities, 
lodge  only  scullions  and  cinder-wenches !  —  Sheer 


The  Young  Conspiracy  S^ 

depth  into  the  garden  below  from  the  parlour-win- 
dow ;  sheer  depth  from  the  bedchamber  to  the  wynd 
on  the  other  side,  and  blank  wall  at  that,  without 
so  much  as  the  jut  of  a  cornice  for  an  adventurous 
foot !  I  fell  to  tramping  the  room  again.  On  every 
side  tokens  of  the  most  delicate  forethought  were 
as  fire  to  my  pain ;  the  very  burnish  of  the  silver 
candlesticks  was  a  reproach.  A  framed  parchment, 
hanging  over  the  writing-table,  dimly  glowing  with 
heraldic  gold  and  tinctures,  caught  my  glance. 
Though  it  could  scarce  soothe  me  to  know  the  name 
of  the  house  whose  hospitality  I  was  violating,  yet  I 
felt  impelled  to  look.  It  was  Drummond,  collateral 
of  the  Duke  of  Perth;  and  Alistair,  the  lad  of  the 
rowan-berry,  my  victim,  the  head  of  it  at  twenty- 
three.  Ay !  if  he  still  breathed.  What  tragedy 
might  not  even  at  this  instant  be  happening  in  the 
great,  silent  mansion? 

I  gulped  another  glass  of  wine  and  broke  a  piece 
of  bread,  yet  could  not  eat.  I  looked  at  my  watch. 
Eight  of  the  evening  —  at  least  four  hours  of  waiting 
before  the  household  was  like  to  be  in  slumber  deep 
enough  to  favour  my  project  of  escape ! 

I  took  a  taper  from  its  sconce  and  went  to  examine 
my  countenance  in  the  mirror.     I  ought  to  have 


84  The  Young  Conspiracy 

been  flattered  to  pass  so  readily  for  one  whose  good 
looks  were  a  byword.  The  personage  for  whom  I 
was  here  had  hardly  been  seen  in  France  these  last 
years ;  but  every  brown-eyed,  fair-skinned,  well-knit, 
slim  lad  must  bear  a  family  look  in  a  French  wig. 
How  heartily  I  wished  myself  swarthy  and  ill- 
favoured  ! 

I  flung  me  down  on  the  huge  bed ;  then,  in  a  terror 
lest  I  should  sleep  too  deep,  rose  again  and  fell  to 
writing  my  confession,  for  Rachel  to  read  when  I 
was  far  away.  This  was  a  happy  inspiration  for  the 
passing  of  the  time. 

I  wrote  a  dozen  letters;  and  none  pleased  me. 
Full  of  such  fine  phrases  they  were,  most  of  them, 
that  when  I  read  again  I  blushed  for  them  and  tore 
the  sheet  across  and  across.  At  length  wearied 
brain  and  sore  heart  dictated  between  them  an 
abrupt  statement  of  facts,  clear  of  either  self-ex- 
tenuation or  penitence.  After  some  hesitation  I 
signed  it  by  my  name  —  which  of  itself  spelt  loyalty 
—  and,  in  a  hurry  (my  pen,  it  seemed,  running  with- 
out my  will),  I  scrawled  underneath  it:  "Would  I 
had  died  before  this!"  I  folded  the  sheet,  sealed 
and  addressed  it :  — 

"For  the  hand  of  Miss  Rachel  Drummond,  in  this 
house." 


The  Young  Conspiracy  85 

My  task  accomplished,  a  new  calm  descended  on 
my  spirit.  Propping  my  head  on  my  hand,  I  fell 
a-musing.  And,  musing  in  a  sadness  that  gradually 
gathered  a  kind  of  sweetness,  the  feared  sleep  came 
upon  me.  I  woke  with  a  start,  as  if  my  body  had 
leaped  to  catch  my  escaping  soul.  I  had  dreamed 
that  I  was  the  lover  of  Rachel  Drummond.  It  was 
poignant  to  find  myself,  after  all,  but  a  kind  of 
traitor,  bent  on  the  further  treachery  of  flight.  The 
great  bell  of  St.  Giles  was  striking  some  hour  — 
three,  I  found  it,  on  consulting  my  watch.  The 
sound  welled  down  the  ridge,  over  the  sleeping 
houses,  like  water. 

Through  the  window,  which  I  had  left  open,  I 
could  see  the  bulk  of  the  old  town  rise  to  the  north, 
ragged  against  the  faint  radiance  of  the  sky.  Upon 
the  black  mass  a  few  lights  were  gleaming,  gross 
yellow  beneath  the  pure  sheen  of  the  stars. 

It  was  a  good  hour  for  my  purpose.  I  was  sud- 
denly seized  with  a  frenzy  to  be  gone  out  of  this 
trap,  wherein  my  honour  was  so  grievously  entangled. 
Tiptoe  I  crept  about  the  room  and  extinguished  the 
candles  already  guttering  in  their  sockets.  A  small 
silver  night-lamp  had  been  placed  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  I  lit  the  wick.  It  burnt  with  a  demure  glow. 
I  stole  to  the  door — "Like  a  thief  in  the  night," 


86  The  Young  Conspiracy 

I  told  myself,  and  bitterly  carried  on  the  simile  in 
my  mind.  Of  how  much  I,  thief,  was  robbing  this 
kind  house !  .  .  .  Of  what  generous,  loyal  illu- 
sions, of  what  passionate  hopes ! 

The  boards  creaked,  as  they  will  beneath  a  fur- 
tive footfall.  The  whole  place  seemed  full  of  sighs 
to  me.  Yet  it  was  singular  that  I  could  hear  any- 
thing, so  loud  were  the  hammering  pulses  in  my 
ears. 

On  the  very  threshold  my  foot  struck  against  a 
barrier.  Had  my  step  been  less  timid,  I  must  have 
fallen  across  it.  Instantly  a  figure  reared  itself  into 
what  seemed  to  me  giant  stature.  I  saw  a  flushed 
boyish  countenance  looking  down  at  me,  blinking 
in  the  dim  light  beneath  a  short  crop  of  tousled  yel- 
low hair.  As  I  stared,  absolutely  bereft  of  speech 
by  miserable  astonishment,  I  saw  the  creature  fumble 
with  his  sword-belt,  straighten  his  disordered  coat 
with  anxious  hands ;  saw  him  dive  for  his  wig  and 
flusteringly  adjust  it  on  his  dishevelled  pow.  And 
then  he  stood,  a  mighty  youth,  unmistakably  a 
gentleman,  bowing  deep  before  me. 

"I  trust  your  Highness  will  forgive,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  which  brought  me,  with  a  pang,  back  to  the 
tavern.     "I  had  fallen  asleep  at  my  post." 

The  passage  was  so  dimly  lit  by  a  single  lamp 


The  Young  Conspiracy  87 

that  it  seemed  to  harbour  nothing  but  shadows ;  but 
towards  the  end  of  it  (where  I  remembered  the  stairs) 
there  came  even  as  he  spoke  a  faint  clank,  as  of  a 
sentry  stirring,  echoed,  or  so  my  fancy  had  it,  by  a 
similar  sound  from  the  black  depths  below. 

"Truly,"  I  exclaimed  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "I  am 
well  guarded  !" 

"Ay,"  said  the  giant  simply;  "had  anyone  sought 
access  to  your  Highness,  it  had  been  across  my  body. 
Does  your  Highness  require  anything?"  he  added 
respectfully,  after  a  pause  in  which  I  felt  like  a 
drowning  man  with  the  waters  closing  above  his  head. 

I  stammered  from  excuse  to  excuse.  I  was  rest- 
less. Had  not  been  able  to  sleep.  Had  had  a  thought 
of  seeking  fresh  air  in  the  garden.  .  .  . 

He  was  all  eagerness.  He  would  escort  my  High- 
ness, if  so  it  pleased  me.  Watchers  were  posted  at 
every  entrance  and  down  the  lane.  My  Highness 
might  feel  quite  secure.  This  youth,  Julian  — 
Rachel's  Julian,  I  had  no  doubt,  just  nineteen  by  the 
pedigree,  I  remembered  —  had  abandoned  the  elab- 
orate caution  showed  by  my  hostess  even  in  privacy, 
and  gave  me  boldly  the  Royal  title.  It  added  to  my 
sense  of  exasperated  helplessness.  I  answered  him 
somewhat  tartly  that  I  had  changed  my  mind  and 
desired,  above  all  things,  solitude. 


88  The  Young  Conspiracy 

Then,  my  heart  misgiving  me  at  the  innocent 
abashed  look  on  his  countenance,  being  conscious, 
too,  that  I  was  playing  my  part  extremely  ill,  I  added 
hastily  that  I  would  be  grateful  for  a  glass  of  fair 
water,  for  I  was  feverish ;  and  on  a  further  thought 
bade  him  give  me  news  of  his  brother.  He  was  a 
lad,  apparently,  of  few  woids  and  simple  thoughts, 
and  could  scarce  give  himself  time  to  blurt  out  that 
Alistair  was  a  trifle  easier,  so  anxious  was  he  to  run 
upon  my  errand. 

I  stood  on  the  threshold  as  he  tramped  down  the 
passage,  hesitating  upon  a  last  mad  hope.  But,  spite 
of  his  nineteen  years,  he  was  full-grown  Scotch  in 
prudence.  I  heard  him  pause  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  heard  the  gutturals  of  the  Gaelic ;  and  a  squat 
fellow  in  a  kilt  came  swaggering  through  the  shadows 
back  upon  me,  to  halt  within  a  yard  of  my  door.  I 
withdrew  into  my  room  to  shut  out  his  solemn, 
staring  eyes.  The  thought  of  forcing  an  escape,  at 
the  penalty  of  injuring  one  of  these  loyal  creatures, 
was  too  odious  to  be  entertained.  Again  the  neces- 
sity of  a  timely  confession  urged  itself  upon  me; 
yet  at  sight  of  honest,  eager  Julian,  back  with  his 
brimming  glass,  I  hastily  turned  over  my  missive 
of  the  night,  lest  its  address  should  excite  suspicion. 


The  Young  Conspiracy  89 

The  lad  begged  me  with  great  simplicity  to  retire 
to  bed,  once  again  assuring  me,  ere  he  departed,  of 
the  thoroughness  of  the  watch  and  ward.  I  could 
have  screamed  at  the  hateful  irony  of  it  all. 


m 


Julian  was  in  my  chamber  again  at  the  first  streak 
of  dawn.  It  seemed  that  I  was  to  preside  at  some 
secret  meeting  of  my  loyal  adherents  at  this  early 
hour.  As  he  was  sparse  of  speech  and  I  ignorant  of 
all  I  was  supposed  to  know,  it  took  much  guessing 
on  my  part  to  discover  even  so  much.  All  my  hints 
—  and  I  dared  not  now  insist  with  the  peremptori- 
ness  I  had  shown  in  the  night  —  failed  to  dislodge  my 
overzealous  subject  from  his  attendance.  When  my 
toilet  was  completed  he  knelt  and  kissed  my  hand. 

"My  brother  bids  me  tell  your  Highness,"  said  he, 
"with  his  deep  duty,  that  it  is  grievous  to  him  not 
to  be  present  at  the  great  meeting.  He  cannot  speak 
much,  even  in  a  whisper,  for  that  it  brings  blood 
from  the  lung  —  in  which,  the  surgeon  will  have  it, 
there  is  danger.  But  he  bids  me  add  that  this  morn- 
ing your  Highness  will  at  last  know  his  friends." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  the  big  lad  —  and  he 
recited  it  something  as  a  child  his  task,  his  knee  still 


90  The  Young  Conspiracy 

to  the  ground,  his  blue  eyes  fixed  on  mine,  with  the 
look  of  a  dog  on  his  master.  I  said  it  was  well,  as 
regally  as  I  might.  Had  I  wanted  to  lay  bare  the 
truth  at  that  moment,  I  could  not  have  done  so ;  the 
current  had  hold  of  me ;  I  must  with  it.  Yet  when 
it  came  to  the  leaving  of  the  room,  my  feet  seemed 
rooted  to  the  boards.  I  stood  staring  towards  the 
window  at  the  square  of  light,  radiant  blue  against 
the  yellow  of  the  candlelight.  Then,  as  Julian 
glanced  at  me  with  surprise,  I  turned  to  follow  him 
from  the  room,  and  my  eye  caught  last  night's  letter, 
which,  if  you  will  believe  me,  I  had  clean  forgotten  ! 

"I  pray  you,"  said  I,  on  the  impulse,  "to  give  this 
letter  to  your  sister  when  I  am  gone  —  or,"  I  added, 
in  a  less  assured  tone,  "if  aught  should  hap  to  me." 

He  took  it  without  speaking,  and  thrust  it  in  hid- 
ing over  his  great  chest. 

Now  comes  that  scene  of  my  life  which  to  look 
back  on  is  more  like  the  confusion  of  a  dream  than 
aught  that  could  ever  have  happened.  Since  then 
I  have  joyed  and  sorrowed  as  other  men,  loved  and 
hated,  prayed  to  my  God  and  served  my  neighbour ; 
but  all  the  drama  of  my  life  was  held  in  that  single 
hour,  and  no  moment  has  ever  pulsated  since  with 
such  poignancy. 


The  Young  Conspiracy  91 

I  was  conducted  by  Julian,  who  trod  with  the  mien 
of  one  assisting  at  a  sacred  ceremony,  into  a  long 
room,  on  the  ground  floor.  Some  dozen  people 
were  grouped  at  the  end  of  it,  conversing  in  low 
tones.  As  I  entered,  silence  fell.  All  eyes  were 
upon  me. 

I  saw  Julian  meant  me  to  advance,  and  I  ad- 
vanced. Then  the  group  divided  and  stood  right 
and  left  bowing  low,  each  man,  as  I  passed  him.  I 
took  my  seat  where  it  was  placed  for  me,  on  a  chair 
set  with  velvet  cushions.  Whereafter,  one  by  one, 
they  approached  and  kissed  my  hand,  giving  me 
their  names  as  they  did  so.  It  was  Drummond  of 
this  and  Drummond  of  that,  and  Grant  of  the  single 
loyal  branch,  and  Cameron,  and  McPherson,  Gor- 
don, and  McGregor  —  names  that  should  have  been 
music  in  my  ears  had  I  been  he  for  whom  they  took 
me.  I  saw  that  they  were  all  youths;  scarce  a 
bearded  man  among  them.  And  some  went  white 
with  the  emotion  of  their  young  ardour ;  and  some 
deep  red,  as  if  the  seething  loyal  blood  of  them  had 
gone  to  their  heads;  but  all  looked  at  me  with 
the  same  eyes  of  fire.  All,  I  saw,  wore  the  sprig  of 
the  rowan-berry  at  their  breasts. 

The  devil  that  had  spoken  for  me  before  spoke  up 
now. 


92  The  Young  Conspiracy 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  I,  '*  I  am  glad  to  he  here  among 
ye.  But  it  is  given  me  to  understand  that  our  time 
is  short ;  it  would  be  best  that  ye  should  speak  first 
and  tell  me  your  plans,  for  I  have  come  hither,  I 
take  it,  to  do  your  will." 

When  I  had  uttered  the  words,  I  thought  them 
mighty  cunning,  since  they  invited  confidence  with 
little  compromise  to  myself.  (I  could  laugh,  now, 
to  think  how,  but  for  the  mercy  of  God,  I  was  knot- 
ting the  noose  about  my  neck.)  There  was  a  sudden 
clamour  among  the  lads  as  I  finished,  so  eager  was 
everyone  to  speak.  I  saw  a  couple  fiercely  elbow 
each  other.  It  was  clear  that  if,  as  I  began  to  suspect, 
the  man  I  had  wounded  was  the  head  of  the  Young 
Conspiracy,  his  presence  was  sadly  wanted. 

"Pray,  gentlemen — "  I  began  again  —  the  true 
Chevalier  could  scarce  have  delivered  himself  with 
a  finer  mixture  of  urbanity  and  command. 

As  upon  my  entrance,  a  quick  silence  fell  upon 
them,  they  exchanging  looks  the  while  like  dogs 
waiting  to  spring  at  each  other's  throats.  And  into 
this  silence  came  a  voice  —  Rachel's  voice.  Like 
the  far  lament  of  the  pipe  in  the  hills,  it  stole  in  pure 
sweetness  to  my  ear ;  yet  before  I  heard  its  message 
I  knew  that  it  spoke  my  doom. 


The  Young  Conspiracy  93 

"Treachery !"  it  said.  And  again,  "Treachery !" 
And,  as  the  notes  of  a  tune  vary  on  the  same  motive : 
"We  are  betrayed  —  betrayed  !" 

The  cry  came  wailing  towards  us  from  the  passage. 
Now  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  her  delicate  hand  on 
the  sleeve  of  a  young  man  who  went  beside  her  in 
silence.  All  turned  and  stared  at  her,  and  there  was 
a  great  stillness.  She  uttered  no  further  sound,  but 
advanced  steadily  upon  us,  guiding  the  youth  whose 
arm  she  touched. 

Of  the  conspirators,  not  one  but  utter  astonish- 
ment had  robbed  him  of  his  utterance.  I  sat  still 
in  my  guilt  as  a  man  may  wait,  his  head  on  the 
block,  expecting  the  blow.  She  came  in  a  white 
flame  of  anger,  the  like  of  which  I  never  beheld, 
either  before  or  since.  As  she  halted  before  me, 
she  dominated  every  creature  in  the  room.  A 
second  her  eyes  fixed  me,  as  I  sat ;  and  then  —  in 
her  sweet  singsong  —  she  spoke  again :  — 

"  You  are  all  betrayed,  and  it  is  my  fault !  That 
man  —  it  was  I  brought  him  into  your  midst  —  he  is 


a  spy 


There  ran  a  sort  of  howl  about  the  group.     Rachel 
lifted  her  hand. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "here  is  our  Prince  !" 
Clamour  sprang  up  again ;  deep  murmurs.     Again 


94  The  Young  Conspiracy 

she  controlled  all.  "  First,  we  must  secure  his  safety. 
That  man  has  our  secret :  he  must  die." 

Then  the  sluices  of  fury  opened.  Right  and  left, 
blades  leaped  out  of  the  scabbard.  Eyes  as  of  wild 
beasts  glared  upon  me.  Then  he  whom  Rachel  had 
spoken  of  as  the  Prince  opened  his  lips  for  the  first 
time. 

"Pray,  gentlemen,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "put  up 
your  swords.  I  do  not  wish  to  have  blood  spilt  in 
my  presence." 

Even  in  that  moment  of  fierce  tension  I  had  a 
singularly  vivid  impression  of  our  Prince's  person- 
ality. I  marked  the  bright-coloured  boyish  face, 
the  clear,  brown  eye  turned  with  cold  indifference 
upon  myself;  the  disdainful  lip  that  dropped  the 
words  of  clemency  —  not  that  the  wretched  life  of 
the  spy  mattered,  but  that,  to  the  Royal  gaze,  blood 
would  be  an  unpleasing  sight ! 

"Mr.  Drummond,"  said  the  Prince  then,  address- 
ing Julian,  who  stood,  a  huge,  silent  menace,  brood- 
ing behind  me,  "will  you  give  me  the  favour  of  your 
attention  for  a  few  moments  apart?" 

As  the  pair  drew  aside  to  the  further  end  of  the 
room,  the  wave  of  jealousy  in  the  group  of  boys  thus 
left  unnoticed  diverted  for  a  moment  their  attention 
from    myself.      Only    Rachel,   clenching    and   un- 


The  Young  Conspiracy  95 

clenching  her  little  hands,  took  yet  a  step  nearer  to 
me,  and  dropped  her  sweet- voiced  hatred  into  my 
ear:  — 

"  You  must  die  —  oh,  you  must  die  !  Do  not  think 
you  can  escape  death  !" 

I  turned  my  eyes  and  looked  up  at  her.  I  was 
still  seated.  Whereupon,  moved  by  what  singular 
intuition  I  cannot  explain,  she  exclaimed  almost  in 
a  whisper :  — 

"  I  see  my  brother's  blood  upon  your  hands !" 

The  words  rushed  to  my  lips:  "Kill  me,  then, 
you!"  I  would  have  welcomed  such  a  way  out  of 
it  at  last.  But  I  left  them  unspoken :  some  final 
instinct  of  dignity  kept  me  to  a  dumb  endurance. 
And,  indeed,  though  it  takes  time  to  tell  of  them, 
these  events  succeeded  each  other  with  such  breathless 
haste  that  a  man's  thought  could  scarce  follow  them, 
much  less  reason  upon  them.  Barely  the  time  for 
those  angry  lads  about  me  to  shoot  their  jealous 
glances  away  from  me  after  young  Drummond, 
when  there  broke  in  upon  them  a  gentleman  at  sight 
of  whom  there  was  a  start  of  surprise,  confusion,  I 
had  almost  said  terror,  among  the  conspirators. 

"Murray!"  exclaimed  the  Chevalier  in  tones  of 
relief. 

The  new-comer,  a  middle-aged  man  of  extraor- 


96  The  Young  Conspiracy 

dinary  masterful  appearance,  cast  a  flaming  look 
from  face  to  face,  to  end  upon  the  Prince's. 

"Ay,  Chevalier,"  he  said  in  a  low,  rapid  voice, 
"you've  done  me  finely,  this  time,  with  your  secret 
voyage  !  .  .  .  Ay,  and  done  well  for  the  cause,  too  !  — 
Wretched  boobies !"  he  turned  back  upon  the  boys, 
spitting  the  words  in  his  rage  —  "you'd  be  having 
your  own  Association,  would  ye?  That  of  your 
elders  is  too  slow  and  too  cautious,  and  you'd  lure 
your  Prince  into  the  heart  of  danger,  in  spite 
of  us  ?  .  .  .  Death  !  You'd  be  setting  up  the  throne 
again,  such  as  you !  Ay,  and  'tis  to  the  whipping- 
block  I'd  send  ye !" 

At  which,  tiger  cubs  as  they  were,  you  should 
have  heard  the  growl  that  burst  from  them. 

"Hush!"  cried  Murray.  With  a  gesture  of  sud- 
den warning,  his  countenance  changing  indescrib- 
ably, he  lifted  a  thin  voice :  — 

"By  the  Rood,  I  am  too  late!  The  mischief's 
done!" 

The  echo  of  a  cry,  unnaturally  cut  into  dumbness, 
was  in  our  ears ;  next  the  shuffle  of  footsteps,  stealthy 
yet  numberless,  in  the  garden  without,  beneath  the 
windows  —  the  repeated  click  of  swords  and  fire- 
locks. And  ere  a  look  could  be  exchanged,  much 
less  a  word,  among  us,  a  sharp  voice  rang  out  in 


The  Young  Conspiracy  97 

command ;  and  we  heard  the  rhythmic  thud  of  a 
score  of  muskets  on  the  clay  of  the  path. 

Within  the  room  was  first  stupor,  then  the  hard 
breathing  of  men  determined  to  the  death ;  but,  for 
the  rest,  deep  silence.  Into  this  silence  came,  very 
quietly  —  with  no  more  trouble  indeed  than  the 
mere  lifting  of  the  latch  —  some  four  gentlemen,  one 
in  the  uniform  of  the  usurper ;  and  in  the  passage 
behind  them,  massing  sturdily,  the  soldiers. 

'Twas  then  that  the  divine  suggestion  which  was  to 
redeem  me  sprang  into  my  mind.  I  was  seated,  you 
may  remember,  in  the  chair  of  State ;  and  about  me 
the  lads  were  still  gathered,  as  though  I  were  the  chief 
personage  (as,  in  a  way,  indeed  I  was).  I  saw 
now,  in  a  flash,  how  out  of  my  very  baseness  I 
would  play  the  hero,  pass  for  my  liege  in  earnest, 
and  take  his  danger  to  myself.  Rising,  with  an  air 
of  majesty  which  this  time  came  unsought,  I  called 
out  commandingly :  — 

"Surely,  gentlemen,  is  not  God  with  us?  Draw, 
my  friends,  and  let  your  Prince  lead  you !" 

So  saying,  I  drew  with  a  flourish  and  hurled 
myself  upon  the  foremost  officer. 

Before  my  point  could  reach  him,  I  felt  as  if  a 
rock  had  been  cast  against  my  breast,  dashing  me, 
as  it  were,  down  some  sudden  yawning  precipice. 


98  The  Young  Conspiracy 

And,  as  I  fell,  I  heard  a  crash  as  of  a  world  explod- 
ing, into  the  reverberating  echoes  of  which  there 
rang  the  words :  "His  blood  is  on  his  own  head  ! " 

Now,  seeing  it  is  myself  who  is  telling  this  story, 
it  needs  no  assurance  that  I  did  not  die  of  that  shot ; 
nor  that  the  Chevalier  escaped  capture,  since  ye  all 
know  how  he  came  again  later;  how  he  fought  and 
conquered ;  how  he  fought  and  lost.  But  this  secret 
chapter  of  his  life  no  one  knows  but  the  few  that  were 
of  the  Young  Conspiracy  itself  and  those  that  were 
present  at  its  failure. 

It  was  many  weeks  later  (for  my  journey  back  to 
life  was  a  long  one  indeed)  that  I  myself  had  the  last 
word  of  that  circumstantial  enigma.  Then  I  learnt 
how,  chafing  in  weary  inaction  month  after  month 
at  Gravelines  —  in  consequence  of  the  failure  of 
Roquefeuille's  expedition  against  England  —  the 
young  Prince  had  allowed  himself  to  be  tempted  by 
the  enthusiastic  pledges  of  a  band  of  hot-headed 
Highland  youths,  and  had  come  over  to  lend  his 
personal  sanction  to  a  new  Loyalist  movement. 

This  escapade  had  been  carried  through  in  secret, 
in  utter  defiance  of  Murray  and  the  Highland  Asso- 
ciation; though,  indeed,  Murray  had  been  so  dis- 
trustful of  some  such  coup  de  tUe  that  a  swift  vessel 


The  Young  Conspiracy  99 

of  his  chartering  was  at  the  time  actually  patrolling 
the  coast  to  intercept  the  young  Chevalier,  if  need 
be,  and  save  him  from  his  own  folly.  Murray  knew 
how  keenly  alert  were  the  Elector's  police,  how  well 
informed  both  in  England  and  Scotland  —  as,  indeed, 
events  proved  but  too  well.  Be  it  as  it  may,  had  it 
not  been  for  me  —  whom  you  may  well,  in  truth, 
style  the  "Young  Pretender"  of  that  day  —  there 
would  have  been  no  Prestonpans,  no  Holyrood  .  .  . 
and  no  Culloden. 

Now,  he  who  fired  at  me  was  not  the  Hanoverian 
officer,  but  a  bitter  Whiggish  gentleman  in  his  com- 
pany, who  thereby  thought  to  perform  an  act  of 
high  policy  and  cut  the  Gordian  knot  of  civil  strife. 

But,  as  the  blood  of  kings  is  not  to  be  shed  with 
the  same  ease  as  that  of  commoners,  so  great  an  awe 
fell  upon  the  party  when  the  deed  was  done,  so  deep 
a  feeling  of  responsibility  and  doubt,  that  by  tacit 
consent  they  withdrew  without  attempting  a  single 
arrest.  They  could  not,  in  sooth,  be  accused  in  high 
quarters  of  want  of  zeal;  yet  none  would  be  in  a 
hurry  to  boast  of  a  share  in  such  a  transaction.  — 
A  man  may  render  such  monstrous  service  to  his  sov- 
ereign that  he  will  walk  in  fear  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Murray  (the  wily  old  fox !)  was  not  like  to  misuse 
the  opportunity  I  had  given  him.    I  have  been  made 


TOO  The  Young  Conspiracy 

to  smile  many  a  time  hearing  how  he  flung  himself 
upon  my  body,  placed  his  hand  upon  my  heart  and, 
groaning  aloud,  declared  his  Prince  was  dead ;  how 
thereupon  he  mouthed  his  curses  upon  the  regicides, 
and  then,  it  is  averred,  fell  to  weeping  actual  tears ; 
Julian's  huge  frame  meanwhile  proving  useful  in 
concealing  the  quiet  young  man  in  the  corner. 

When  the  gentry  had  departed  (which  they  did  in 
sneaking  haste),  all  attention  was  turned  to  the  ques- 
tion of  the  Chevalier's  immediate  safety ;  and  not  a 
creature  (save  one)  thought  of  seeing  whether  breath 
remained  in  him  who  had  proved  himself  the  best 
loyalist  of  them  all. 

But  she,  Rachel  —  true  heart,  whether  in  hate  or 
love  —  flew  like  a  bird  to  my  side.  And  never  (as  I 
tell  her  now  when  I  wish  to  tease)  was  higher  honour 
paid  me  than  when  she  left  Julian  to  pour  out  the 
Prince's  wine,  that  she  might  herself  coax,  drop  by 
drop,  through  my  stiffened  lips  the  cordial  that  ar- 
rested my  ebbing  life. 

I  have  dim  visions  of  the  days  that  followed.  In 
spite  of  pain  and  fever  they  are  sweet.  I  see  Rachel, 
and  that  is  the  first  memory,  reading  &,  letter  by  my 
bed ;  and  I  know  it  is  my  own  letter,  and  am  content. 
The  horrid  web  of  anguish  has  gone  from  me  as  if 
it  had  been  but  an  evil  dream.  ...     I  see,  with 


The  Young  Conspiracy  loi 

infinite  pleasure,  her  delicate  profile  cut  against  the 
black  of  the  oak  panels.  I  lose  myself  in  ecstasy 
over  the  curl  of  her  upper  lip,  parted  in  its  ever 
unspoken  question.  Then,  when  the  fever  ran  high 
again,  and  I  was  thought  to  be  dying,  her  tender 
face  comes  between  me  and  the  void ;  her  exquisite 
hand  alone  holds  me  back ;  and  Fate  gives  me  the 
precious  revenge  to  hear  the  sweet,  crooning  voice 
that  once  demanded  my  death  now  bid  me  again  and 
again  to  live. 

"If  you  die  my  heart  will  break,"  come  the  words, 
murmuring,  sighing,  sweet  like  the  breath  of  the 
wind  in  the  pine-tops. 

After  that,  how  could  I  die? 

And  presently  there  are  the  days  when  I  am  very 
glad  to  be  alive :  glad  even  in  the  mere  flesh  of  me. 
It  is  full  spring  without,  and  renewed  Spring  in  my 
blood,  and  something  else  which  comes  but  once  in 
a  man's  years.  And  the  day  dawns  when  Alistair, 
as  pale  as  I  am  myself,  but  earlier  on  his  feet,  walks 
into  my  room  and  sits  beside  me;  and  our  hands 
meet  in  the  clasp  of  that  friendship  I  had  yearned 
for  in  the  tavern.  IJe  is  a  grand  lad,  is  Alistair, 
and  I  have  never  liked  man  so  well  before  or  since. 

All  the  news  of  the  world  is  good.  The  Chevalier 
is  safe  again  in  Gravelines  after  his  escapade ;  Scot- 


I02  The  Young  Conspiracy 

land  is  biding  her  time,  as  Murray  and  my  uncle 
would  have  it;  and  the  Hanoverians  have  been 
beaten  at  Fontenoy. 

There  falls,  too,  an  evening  when  Rachel  makes 
me  a  confession.  And  it  is  this :  when  the  soldiers 
clinked  their  muskets  under  the  windows  that 
morning  she  (deeming  this  the  final  outcome  of 
my  treachery)  had  had  her  hand  on  her  brother's 
sword  that  she  might  kill  me.  Only  the  blade  re- 
sisted her.  I  tell  her  that  she  could  scarce  have 
pierced  my  coat;  but  she,  in  her  dear  singsong, 
assures  me  otherwise. 

"I  would  have  plunged  it  in  your  heart!"  she 
croons. 

Then  I  tell  her  she  had  already  reached  my  heart 
more  surely;  and  I  watch  the  trembling  of  her 
grave,  wistful  lip,  and  am  deeply  happy. 

In  her  mystic  way  she  will  have  it  that  it  was 
written  in  heaven  that  her  house  should  save  the 
Prince  at  this  moment  of  his  deadly  peril.  There- 
fore was  Alistair  to  mistake  me  for  his  messenger ; 
therefore  was  she  to  mistake  me  for  the  Chevalier 
himself;  therefore,  above  all,  was  I  to  be  held  in 
silence  when  I  ought  to  have  spoken. 

It  would  ill  become  me  —  would  it  not?  —  to 
quarrel  with  so  pious  and  comforting  a  conclusion? 


THE   GREAT  WHITE   DEEPS 


Ill 

THE  GREAT  WHITE  DEEPS 

Mr.  Everard  Mildmay,  cornette  in  His  Most 
Christian  Majesty's  Gensdarmes  Anglois,  had  posi- 
tively not  a  louis  d'or  left  to  ballast  his  pocket.  It 
was  not  through  lack  of  good  pay,  for  Louis-the- 
Well-Beloved  treated  his  English  company  of  gentle- 
men-at-arms —  Jacobite  refugees,  all  of  them  — 
right  royally;  but,  in  Paris  or  Versailles,  gold  will 
slip  like  quicksilver  through  a  young  soldier's  fingers. 
And  here  was  his  ofif-duty  week,  and  pay-day  not 
till  the  end  of  it !  He  would  not  borrow :  his  Eng- 
lish pride  was  too  high.  Nor  were  his  English  wits 
nimble  enough  for  the  plausible  shifts  a  French  officer 
would  have  found  easy. 

So  Cornet  Mildmay  sentenced  himself  to  arrest 
in  his  little,  high-perched,  iron-balconied  room  in  the 
good  old  house  of  the  Rue  Ste.  Placide;  and  after 
three  days  of  this  seclusion,  realised  that  his  ennui 
was  rapidly  growing  beyond  endurance. 

Not  the  comfortable  fireside  in  this  bitter  February 

weather;   not  the  excellent  fare  (sent  up,  on  good 

105 


io6  The  Great  White  Deeps 

credit,  from  the  Mousquetaires  Gris) ;  not  the  last 
book  from  England  (a  vastly  entertaining  work  by 
Mr.  Henry  Fielding,  "The  History  of  Tom  Jones") 
could  keep  the  blood  of  this  youth  of  twenty-three 
from  clamouring  mad  protest  against  such  a  waste  of 
existence. 

And  yet  some  obscure  English  obstinacy  held  him 
firm  against  himself.     He  raged,  but  yielded  not. 

Never  had  the  thought  of  the  tavern-room,  the 
hazard  of  dice,  or  the  flutter  of  the  cards  been  more 
alluring ;  never  the  joy  of  comradeship  so  necessary ; 
never  had  great  Paris  seemed  to  be  so  full  of  fair 
women,  gallant  intrigue,  rhythm  of  music  and  of 
dancing  feet,  as  upon  this  third  evening  of  Mr.  Mild- 
may's  voluntary  imprisonment. 

Impatience  positively  seethed  in  his  brain,  forbade 
his  lusty  limbs  a  minute's  rest.  Full  a  score  of  times 
had  he  been  out  on  his  balcony,  now  wrapped  in  his 
great  red  military  cloak,  now  merely  in  his  douillette, 
till  the  biting  air  drove  him  in  again.  He  had  watched 
the  sumptuous  chariots  of  La  Guiche  and  Croi  sweep 
with  fine  curve  and  clangour  into  their  respective 
courtyards  a  little  way  down  the  street;  he  had 
watched  the  halting  of  sedan-chairs  before  the  silent 
grey  walls  of  the  convent  opposite  —  the  Ladies' 
Retreat  of  St.  Elizabeth  —  and  with  unspeculative 


The  Great  White  Deeps  107 

eye  had  marked  the  veiled  figures  slip  in  through 
a  discreetly  opened  door. 

"Some  ancient  dames  of  the  Faubourg,  beginning 
to  think  of  their  soul  now  that  they  have  lost  their 
teeth!"  he  muttered  irritably,  and  flung  himself 
back  again  to  the  vain  solace  of  book  and  fireside, 
only  to  begin  his  bear-walk  once  more. 

And  so  on  to  the  dusk,  when,  for  the  last  time, 
Tom  Jones  (genial  companion  who  surely  deserved 
better  usage)  flew  from  a  petulant  hand,  and  Cornet 
Mildmay,  after  kicking  the  logs  on  the  hearth  and 
cursing  the  stifling  four  wails,  suddenly  seized  at  his 
cloak  again  and  was  for  his  balcony,  where  at  least 
the  airs  were  free. 

Notwithstanding  the  gathering  twilight,  the  world 
seemed  lighter  than  it  had  been  all  day,  for  a  mantle 
of  snow  had  just  fallen  over  Paris.  He  looked  up 
upon  the  slate  and  crimson  sky,  then  down  upon  the 
ancient  walls  across  his  narrow  street.  —  Strangely 
sombre  they  showed  under  the  white-powdered  roofs, 
over  the  white-carpeted  pavement ;  and,  with  closed 
shutters,  a  secret,  sullen  place. 

The  mystery  of  shrouded  Paris  called  to  him.  His 
heart  swelled.  This  coming  night  of  nights  seemed 
to  whisper  to  him  of  adventure.  And  he  was  tied 
by  his  empty  purse  and  his  proud  resolve ! 


io8  The  Great  White  Deeps 

A  lovely  stillness  was  upon  the  city.  All  sounds  of 
traffic  were  muffled ;  no  living  creature  seemed  to  stir 
within  hearing ;  there  was  only  the  faint  clang  of  far- 
off  bells  tolling  the  Angelus.  The  Rue  Ste.  Placide 
seemed  indeed  to  answer  to  its  name.  The  pure 
frozen  air,  in  its  crispness,  had  almost  a  taste  as  of 
some  fresh  fruit. 

Adventure  comes  to  the  adventurous,  whether  they 
seek  with  alert  eyes  the  secret  byways  of  the  world, 
or  whether  fate  tarries  for  them  on  their  unconscious 
threshold.  The  only  wings  required  for  the  flight 
are  high  courage  in  the  game  of  life  and  disdain  of 
responsibility.  When  Cornet  Mildmay  rose  from 
his  discontent  for  the  last  time  at  the  sundown  hour  of 
that  25th  of  February,  1749,  there  was  waiting  for 
his  immediate  grasp  the  first  link  of  a  chain  of  expe- 
riences which  was  to  make  of  that  date  the  most 
critical  of  his  gilded  soldier's  life. 

As  he  stood — a  vivid  patch  of  crimson  against  the 
white  and  grey  background  —  flicking  with  his  finger 
little  flakes  of  snow  from  the  iron  rails  of  his  balcony, 
one  of  the  jealously  shuttered  windows  of  the  con- 
vent opposite,  slightly  below  his  level,  was  flung  wide 
open.  He  glanced  idly  down;  and  his  gaze  was 
arrested,  fixed. 


The  Great  White  Deeps  109 

Framed  in  the  grey  carved  stone,  blossoming  like 
a  white  flower  against  a  background  of  darkness, 
had  appeared  a  vision :  a  girl's  face,  pale  and  ex- 
quisite, illumined  by  the  cold  snow-light  as  by  a  spe- 
cial radiance,  with  dark  eyes,  wistful  —  ay,  and,  by 
all  the  saints  of  England,  gazing  upward,  full  and 
earnest  upon  him ! 

"Mr.  Mildmay!" 

The  call  rang  across  the  narrow  French  street,  in 
English  accent,  as  silver  pure  to  his  astonished  ear 
as  the  tart  air  was  to  his  lips.  For  nigh  five  years, 
since  his  flight  from  England,  Everard  Mildmay  had 
not  heard  his  mother-tongue  from  any  but  the  rough 
throats  of  men.  From  the  lips  of  a  woman  it  fell 
now  with  a  startling  sweetness  that  gave  him  the 
oddest  sense  of  joy.  There  was,  moreover,  in  the 
tones  a  ring  of  appeal,  a  kind  of  echo  of  fear,  which 
made  his  generous  blood  leap. 

"At  your  service  !"  he  called  back  eagerly;  and, 
forgetting  his  French  court  bow,  leaned  down  towards 
her,  perilously,  over  the  iron-work.  "Forgive  me, 
madam,  I  — " 

But  she  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  Do  not  speak  !     Listen,  if  you  would  help." 

Then  she  herself  stopped  for  a  moment  to  fling  into 
the  street  below  a  quick  look,  which  he  followed 


no  The  Great  White  Deeps 

with  the  sharpened  intuition  of  exceptional  occur- 
rences. The  Rue  Ste.  Placide,  a  moment  before, 
had  certainly  been  empty;  and  yet  now  two  men 
seemed  to  have  sprung  into  being  down  there,  out  of 
space  —  two  shapeless  brown  spots  upon  the  snow, 
just  under  their  windows.  One  of  them  was  re- 
questing, in  the  most  natural  manner,  of  the  other  a 
light  for  his  pipe. 

And  on  the  instant,  in  Everard's  brain  flashed  the 
recollection  of  the  many  tales  he  had  heard  of  M.  de 
Berryer,  the  Lieutenant  of  Police,  and  his  army  of 
informers,  ever  at  work  in  Louis-le-Bien-Aime's 
capital.  Mouches,  or  mouchards,  the  people  called 
these  detested  spies,  who,  "like  flies,"  they  averred, 
"appear  everywhere,  none  knows  where  from;  and, 
like  flies,  see  all  around  without  seeming  to  look." 

Thus,  when  the  girl  at  the  window  addressed  him 
again,  but  this  time  in  French  and  with  a  marked 
alteration  in  her  tone  —  an  affectation  of  coyness 
very  different  from  the  eagerness  with  which  she  had 
just  spoken  in  English  —  he  would  have  been  dense 
indeed  not  to  realise  that  her  words  were  now  aimed 
at  the  hearkeners  below. 

"Yes,  you  may  come  over  —  we  are  fearfully  dull. 
I  am  so  glad  you  are  better !"  Then,  with  a  slight 
pause,  as  though  to  emphasise  for  his  ear  the  next 


The  Great  White  Deeps  iii 

words :  "Beware  of  the  cold  !  Keep  on  your  cloak, 
friend,  when  you  come,  or  I  shall  be  angry !" 

With  a  pretty  mimicry  of  shuddering,  a  coquettish 
wave  of  the  hand,  she  closed  the  window.  And  the 
officer,  puzzled,  yet  all  aflame,  withdrew  on  his  side, 
even  as  the  two  smokers  in  the  street,  having  appa- 
rently succeeded  in  striking  fire,  separated  again  and 
went  back  into  nothingness. 

But  it  took  little  time  to  exchange  his  douillette 
for  the  blue  and  silver  uniform,  and  his  slippers  for 
the  long  boots,  to  consult  the  mirror  a  moment  or  two, 
to  set  the  laced  tricorne  at  the  most  approved  angle, 
to  fling  the  end  of  the  crimson  cloak  over  one  shoul- 
der —  he  smiled  upon  the  thought  of  that  quaint 
behest  —  to  dash,  clanking,  down  the  stairs.  And 
then,  in  three  steps,  Everard  Mildmay  was  across 
the  street. 

Before  he  had  time  to  raise  the  knocker  the  door 
opened,  and  he  was  silently  received  by  the  white 
vision  herself.  And  once  more  the  sweet  English 
voice  spoke :  — 

"Mr.  Mildmay,  the  place  is  watched  night  and 
day.  You  understood.  I  thank  you  for  that  no 
less  than  for  your  courtesy.  So  you  are  willing  to 
help?" 

She  extended  her  hand;   and,  as  he  seized  and 


112  The  Great  White  Deeps 

kissed  it  and  held  it  still,  he  felt  it  first  flutter  like  a 
frightened  bird,  then  close  upon  his. 

On  the  pulse  of  his  daring,  he  looked  up  and  saw 
the  delicate  face,  half  averted,  crimson  and  then  grow 
pale. 

"I  want  help,  God  knows,"  she  said,  under  her 
breath,  with  a  little  catch  as  of  a  stifled  sob. 

In  the  midst  of  the  wild  conjectures  now  whirling 
in  his  head,  the  young  man  was  chiefly  conscious  of 
the  girl's  loveliness  and  of  her  clinging  touch. 

"Command  me  !"  he  said  fervently. 

She  turned  and  fixed  her  full  glance  upon  him. 

"  Ah !  I  expected  no  less  from  you,  my  country- 
man ;  no  less  from  one  of  your  house,  Mr.  Mildmay 
of  Hildon." 

"You  know  me,  then?    How  am  I  to  call  you?" 

She  hesitated.     "Call  me  Lucy,"  she  said. 

"Lucy?"  The  soft  name  fell  from  his  lips  like 
a  caress. 

She  drew  her  hand  from  his. 

"  Mademoiselle  Lucy.  Will  not  that  suffice,  for 
the  nonce  at  least?"  The  shade  of  an  adorable 
smile  flickered  on  her  lips.  She  gave  her  head  a 
little  toss  of  pride,  then  she  proceeded  with  gravity : 
"Mr.  Mildmay  has  bound  himself  my  knight,  and  he 
must  lead,  or  follow,  me  to-night  without  question." 


The  Great  White  Deeps  113 

Here  it  was  as  if  she  would  fain  be  arch;  but 
something  —  the  same  strained  anxiety  that  robbed 
her  smile  of  all  mirth  —  now  robbed  her  coquetry 
of  freedom. 

He  laid  aside  his  cloak  and  hat. 

"I  am  off  duty  for  four  days  more,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly grave  also.     "Lead  and  command ;  I  follow." 

Thus  was  struck,  in  the  flight  of  a  few  seconds,  an 
amazing  compact.  All  the  iridescent  possibilities 
floating  in  his  brain  when,  but  a  few  minutes  before, 
he  had  given  the  best  approved  swelling  turn  to  his 
lace  ruffle,  the  last  sprinking  of  scented  powder  to  his 
side  curls  a  la  Brigadibre,  were  blown  away  as  by  a 
gust  from  a  world  unknown.  He  felt  himself  stand- 
ing upon  the  edge  of  a  current,  sweeping  whither  he 
could  not  guess ;  but  for  his  life  he  would  not  forego 
the  plunge ! 

Mademoiselle  Lucy  beckoned,  and  he  followed. 
There  was  nothing  alarming  in  the  first  stage  —  a 
silk-panelled,  much  gilded  boudoir,  illumined  by 
candelabras.  In  front  of  a  gay  fire,  upon  the  sofa, 
a  dark  woman  in  the  late  summer  of  her  beauty  and 
very  bright  eyed.  Though  her  face  bore  that  hard, 
almost  cruel,  look  peculiar  to  so  many  Frenchwomen 
of  the  aristocracy,  she  smiled  most  brilliantly  upon 
his  entrance.    Withdrawing  the  generous  display  of 


114  The  Great  White  Deeps 

shapely  feet  exposed  to  the  blaze,  she  curtseyed  to 
his  bow.  As  she  rose  from  her  bend  she  stepped  on 
one  side  and  waved  her  hand. 

"Sister  Bonnefoy,"  she  said.  And  then  Everard 
saw  a  singularly  tall  nun,  who,  from  her  dark  corner, 
slightly  inclined  her  head.  Her  eyes,  he  thought, 
were  fixed  upon  him  with  strangely  watchful  scru- 
tiny. 

A  panting  little  clock  struck  six ;  and  as  if  spurred 
on  by  the  sound,  the  Frenchwoman  once  more 
spoke : — 

"  Ah,  M.  de  Mildmay !  To  the  rescue  of  your  little 
compatriot?  That  is  well.  Now,  not  a  moment  to 
lose,  if  Lucy  is  to  escape  to-night.  Art  ready,  little 
one?" 

"I  have  but  to  slip  my  mantle  on,  madame." 

The  girl's  face  looked  white,  almost  drawn. 
The  lady  tapped  her  on  the  cheek. 

"Fie  !"  said  she ;  "and  a  minute  ago  we  were  all 
so  proud  of  your  courage  —  eh,  my  sister?"  The 
tall  nun  inclined  her  head  again,  and  the  young  man 
felt  that  mystery  was  indeed  closing  round  him. 

"Oh,  hurry !  hurry  !"  pursued  the  lady,  bustling. 
"First  we  must  off  with  these,  our  chevalier !"  point- 
ing to  those  great,  high-rowelled  spurs  which,  among 
other    old-fashioned    accoutrements,    were    distin- 


The  Great  White  Deeps  115 

guishing  badges  of  the  Maison  du  Roy.  "For  in  the 
ways  your  valour  must  tread  to-night  they  would  but 
hinder  you.  Nay !  when  you  see  whose  fingers 
doff  them,  and  when  I  tell  you  whose  fingers  will 
buckle  them  on  once  more,  I  warrant  you  that  frown 
shall  pass !" 

The  Cornet  looked  from  the  clear-cut  face,  trans- 
figured with  a  smile,  as  bright  and  as  cold  as  the  dia- 
mond at  its  ears,  to  the  girl's  bent  head  as  she  knelt 
at  his  feet.  He  saw  the  tip  of  her  little  ear  crimson 
and  felt  the  trembling  of  her  hand.  Poignant  sweet 
movement  of  embarrassment !  He  stood  passive,  for 
ere  she  had  dropped  into  that  lowly  posture  she  had 
flung  him  a  look  of  mingled  pleading  and  command, 
and  had  laid  her  finger  on  her  lip. 

"And  this  handsome  coat,"  the  elder  lady  began 
with  fresh  gusto.  "It  would  be  irremediably  ruined 
on  the  muddy  and  difficult  way.  M.  de  Mildmay 
will  allow  me,  I  beg,  to  provide  him  with  one  more 
suitable."  And  she  seized  the  blue  and  silver  lapels 
with  a  firm  grip. 

A  man  Everard  might  have,  must  have,  resisted. 
But  these  women  !  Now,  upon  his  other  sleeve  was 
Mademoiselle  Lucy's  touch,  too  exquisite  to  resist. 
And  had  he  not  promised  ?  Like  a  child  he  let  them 
pull  off  his  stiff-skirted  coat ;  and  like  a  child  slipped 


ii6  The  Great  White  Deeps 

his  arms  into  the  "wall-coloured"  houpelande  they 
held  up  for  him  between  them. 

Motionless,  the  tall  nun  watched. 

"And  now,"  pursued  the  dark-browed  dame, 
"now  for  your  instructions." 

"Indeed!"  said  the  young  man  with  a  puzzled 
laugh.  "I  shall  be  glad,  madam,  of  some  explana- 
tion—" 

"Explanation!"  she  echoed  quickly.  "I  did 
not  promise  you  that !  See  here,  sir :  is  not  that  ex- 
planation enough?"  She  caught  Lucy  by  the  chin 
and  turned  the  girl's  face  towards  him.  "And  the 
child  is  in  danger!" 

Lucy  met  his  eyes,  with  pride  in  hers. 

"Yes,  in  danger,"  she  said  in  English  and  with 
more  coldness  and  decision  than  she  had  yet  dis- 
played ;  "  and  if  Mr.  Mildmay  carries  out  his  promise 
of  help,  he  must  understand  that  he  will  be  in  danger 
too." 

This  English  girl  must  have  known  the  mettle  of 
her  countryman ;  her  words  were  as  oil  to  his  flame. 
If  he  had  felt  a  moment's  hesitation  he  was  ashamed 
of  it  now. 

But  the  French  lady  laughed  aloud. 

"And,  after  all,  what  is  it  we  ask  of  the  gallant 
gentleman  ?    It  is  our  woman's  way,  you  see,  to  ro- 


The  Great  White  Deeps  117 

mance  about  the  little  services  rendered  to  us.  My 
pretty  young  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  undeceive  you,  but 
this  is  no  very  great  affair  —  merely  to  escort  a  poor, 
persecuted  child  through  some  lonely  passages,  for 
which  she  wants  the  help  of  a  man's  head  and  a  man's 
arm  —  and  there  are  nothing  but  weak  women  in  this 
holy  place." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  let  her  eye  rove 
from  Everard's  slightly  abashed  countenance  to  the 
girl's  set  face. 

As  she  spoke,  she  had  been  spreading  upon  the 
table  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  incredibly  worn,  creased 
and  greasy  with  usage.  She  now  signed  to  him; 
and  the  next  moment  found  him  listening  to  some 
very  concise  instructions,  which  she  gave  with  such 
an  air  of  gravity  that  he  felt  them  to  be  of  vital 
importance. 

"No  escape  through  the  streets,"  she  was  sa)ang. 
"We  are  watched,  caught  like  rats  in  a  trap.  But, 
with  this  in  your  hands,  with  your  determination, 
M.  de  Mildmay,  a  safe  passage  for  you  both  —  if  not 
above  ground,  then  under  ground.  You  have  heard 
perhaps  of  the  abandoned  stone-quarries  that  are 
said  to  lie  under  this  side  of  the  town?" 

He  assented  briefly  —  he  had  heard  rumours, 
vague  accounts. 


ii8  The  Great  White  Deeps 

"Nothing  vague  about  them.  Here  is  a  plan  of 
those  deserted  wastes,  those  great  voids  that  run  deep 
under  our  streets  and  out  into  the  country ;  and  there 
is  a  way  unknown  to  any  but  us.  Here  it  is  — 
see,"  she  went  on,  running  her  strong  white  finger 
along  a  wavy  streak  of  red  that  cut  through  the  irreg- 
ular fretwork  of  black  lines  upon  the  paper.  "It 
would  indeed  be  hazardous  to  venture  in  those  spaces 
without  a  guide ;  but  with  this  you  have,  pray  God, 
an  assured  deliverance." 

Everard  took  the  plan  into  his  hands  to  con  it  for 
himself ;  the  lady  leaned  over  his  shoulder  explain- 
ing:— 

"Look.  Here  where  this  red  line  ends  are  our 
cellar  stairs.  And  there,  at  the  other  end  of  it,  one 
of  the  many  openings  outside  Paris,  where  even  now 
a  coach  and  attendants  are  awaiting  the  flight  of  this 
bird.  The  way  you  must  traverse  is  due  south,  and 
the  distance  not  more  than  half  a  league." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Everard.  He  folded  the  paper 
and  thrust  it  into  his  breast. 

"Remember  who  will  tie  on  your  spurs  of  gold 
again,  beau  chevalier!"  cried  the  lady  then,  fever- 
ishly.   And  to  the  girl :  "  Kiss  me,  Lucy.    Courage  ! " 

Lucy  embraced  her,  coldly  enough,  thought  Ever- 
ard.    Then,  with  a  sudden  turn,  ran  across  to  the 


The  Great  White  Deeps  119 

nun,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  passionately  kissed  the 
long  pale  hand  that  was  silently  extended  to  her.  In 
another  instant  she  was  back  at  Everard's  side. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said.  Colour  had  returned  to  her 
face  and  her  eyes  were  bright :  it  was  as  if  something 
had  rekindled  the  torch  of  her  courage.  She  drew 
up  the  hood  of  her  cloak  and  led  the  way,  followed 
by  her  companion,  who  paused  on  the  threshold  to 
throw  a  significant  smile  across  the  room  at  Sister 
Bonnefoy.  The  latter  still  stood  and  still  watched, 
till  Everard  went  out  in  his  turn.  And  he  thought 
he  could  feel  between  his  shoulders  the  last  look  of 
those  suspicious  eyes. 

Through  corridors  they  went,  in  haste;  then 
through  courtyards,  down  other  passages  and  steps; 
passed  an  iron-bound  door,  and  at  last  found  him- 
self in  a  small  low  vault,  empty  save  for  a  lantern 
ready  lit  on  the  floor.  There,  drawing  the  eyes,  in  the 
opposite  wall  was  a  recently  made  gap  yawning  into 
blackness,  from  which  rose  an  earthy  breath,  mark- 
edly warmer  on  this  night  of  frost  than  that  of  the 
world  above  ground. 

"Here  lies  our  way,  Mr.  Mildmay,"  said  Lucy, 
with  a  sort  of  taunt,  taking  up  the  lantern  and  look- 
ing, as  she  spoke,  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"Forward,  then,"  he  returned,  and  took  her  hand, 


I20  The  Great  White  Deeps 

which  struck  him  with  such  coldness  that  it  seemed 
as  if  all  her  brave  blood  were  burning  in  her  cheek. 
"You  will  find  a  brace  of  pistols  in  the  pockets; 
also  a  compass,  flints  and  matches,"  madame  called 
to  him  as  they  moved  on.  "Were  you  going  alone, 
sir,  I  should  say  to  you:  ^Service  du  Roy T  But  as 
it  is,  why  — "  Her  laugh  and  the  grating  of  the  clos- 
ing doors  behind  them  were  the  last  sounds  of  the 
outer  world  to  fall  upon  their  ears.  They  were  en- 
gulfed into  an  awful  silence,  pointed  by  their  foot- 
steps. 

After  some  minutes  of  steep  descent  down  narrow 
stairs  they  emerged  upon  wider  spaces,  and  Everard's 
somewhat  scattered  wits  came  back  to  him.  He  took 
the  light  from  the  girl's  hand  and  drew  her  to  his 
side,  and  then  stood  to  survey  the  scene. 

Here,  then,  were  the  first  crossways  of  those 
mysterious  labyrinths,  unexplored  for  ages,  whose 
very  existence  was  all  but  forgotten  by  the  Paris 
above ;  extending  under  the  network  of  busy  streets 
and  the  cluster  of  gardens,  palaces,  churches,  and 
convents  that  men  above  ground  called  the  Faubourg 
St.  Grermain.  It  might  have  been  another  world, 
so  completely  did  these  two  already  find  themselves 
cut  off  from  human  life  —  from  life,  indeed,  of  any 


The  Great  White  Deeps  121 

kind,  for  not  even  creatures  of  darkness,  rat  or  bat 
or  reptile,  stirred  in  the  stony  depths  —  so  unreal 
seemed  the  idea  of  these  endless  ramifications  of  pas- 
sages leading  to  unknown  pits,  extending  in  every 
direction.  A  world  like  a  shroud;  roof,  floor,  and 
sides,  wherever  the  rays  of  the  lantern  struck  the  soft 
stone,  shone  back  white  as  milk;  and  every  void 
gaped  black  as  death.  And  over  all,  for  ever,  the 
silence  —  silence  such  as  is  not  known  in  the  stillest 
night  under  the  heavens,  the  silence  that  oppresses 
the  soul  as  with  breathlessness,  that  makes  the  fall 
of  a  drop  of  water  twenty  yards  away  heard  as  if  it 
fell  on  the  brain. 

Moved  by  the  same  thoughts,  they  looked  at  each 
other ;  and  as  they  stood,  it  was  as  if  they  could  hear 
the  beat  of  each  other's  heart.  But  when  he  marked 
her  quivering  lip  and  dilating  eye,  he  determinedly 
threw  off  the  sense  of  awe  that  had  crept  over  him. 
He  smiled  boldly  at  her,  took  her  hand  again  and 
pressed  it  as  he  spoke,  though  this  was,  unconsciously, 
in  a  whisper. 

"A  strange  place,  sweet !  But  safer,  we  know,  for 
us,  than  the  merry  streets  to-night.  Nay,  am  I  not 
with  you?" 

She  rallied  at  once,  he  knew  not  whether  to  the  ten- 
derness in  his  voice  or  to  the  comfort  of  his  protection. 


122  The  Great  White  Deeps 

"  And  did  you  deem  I  was  afraid,  sir  ?  Nay,  then, 
it  must  be  the  reflection  of  these  pale  walls,  for  I  vow 
I  saw  you  turn  the  colour  of  fear  yourself.  And 
now,"  she  went  on,  with  yet  more  assurance,  forbid- 
ding his  attempted  approach  with  imperious  hand, 
"to  work,  good  Mr.  Mildmay.  Your  map,  sir,  and 
your  compass." 

Half  piqued,  half  in  admiration  of  her  courage, 
he  made  her  a  bow,  the  most  flourishing  that  his 
French  court  life  had  taught  him;  and  then  obedi- 
ently laid  down  his  lantern,  spread  out  his  plan,  and 
knelt  beside  it.  As  he  bent  he  felt  her  lean  over 
him,  and  suddenly  looked  up  again  with  laughing 
eyes.  And  the  next  instant  the  laugh  died  in  him, 
for,  catching  her  face  unawares,  he  caught  there  the 
image  of  terror.  The  very  pulse  in  her  soft  throat 
was  beating  like  a  thing  in  agony.  He  glanced  back 
at  his  plan,  and  for  the  first  time,  in  the  light  of 
what  he  had  seen  of  the  great  white  deeps,  the  true 
knowledge  of  their  perilousness  burst  upon  him. 
To  be  lost  underground  in  these  endless  white  mazes 
—  horrible  fate !  To  run  vainly,  seeking  issue,  to 
fear  madly,  to  meet  madness  at  last  and  die  there, 
like  a  rat !    And  how  easy  to  be  thus  lost ! 

But  what  danger,  then,  so  awful,  threatened  this 
frail  creature  that  to  escape  it  she  must  face  such 


The  Great  White  Deeps  123 

terrors?  Sobered  indeed,  he  set  his  compass,  saw 
the  needle  slowly  swing  back  to  repose  and  at  last 
unmistakably  point  to  one  of  the  smaller  galleries. 
He  studied  the  plan  carefully  before  making  up  his 
mind ;  but  red  line  and  needle  were  true  to  each  other. 
He  picked  up  the  implements,  and  with  decision :  — 

"Come,"  said  he  briefly,  and  then  in  softer  tones 
bade  her  take  his  arm.  And  once  more,  in  silence 
they  took  their  road. 

They  first  passed  a  succession  of  similar  crossways, 
which  only  required  the  verdict  of  the  compass. 
But  after  a  while  the  character  of  the  surroundings 
changed.  There  came  a  chain  of  broader  chambers 
where  the  quarrying  seemed  to  have  been  more  reck- 
less, and  where,  amid  a  chaos  of  rough  pillars  (built 
God  knows  in  what  ages  of  the  Paris  above)  that 
seemed  but  precarious  support  for  the  lowering  vault 
of  chalk,  it  was  more  difficult  to  pick  out  the  one  way 
of  safety  by  the  red  streak  on  the  plan. 

A  pervading  dampness,  which  up  to  now  they  had 
been  spared,  was  beginning  to  assert  itself  in  oozing 
walls,  in  pools  of  clear  water,  at  the  bottom  of  which 
the  lantern  rays  revealed  a  soft  white  slime.  Thick 
white  mud  sucked  at  their  feet  as  they  went;  their 
progress  became  more  and  more  a  matter  of  difficulty, 
and  seemed  to  the  man  to  lead  them  into  greater 


124  The  Great  White  Deeps 

danger.  The  surrounding  pillars  presented  an  ever 
more  crushed  and  rotten  appearance ;  the  low,  water- 
soaked  ceilings  bulged  over  their  heads,  rift  in  many 
directions.  In  front,  behind,  from  all  the  side  gal- 
leries, came  the  sound  of  long-gathered  drops  falling 
from  the  roof  into  the  ooze  of  the  ground  with  a  faint 
melancholy  plash. 

Suddenly,  whether  from  the  oppressive  silence  or 
the  muffled  unwholesome  airs  which  drove  the 
blood  to  his  head,  a  wave  of  anger,  of  exasperation, 
swept  over  Everard.  Was  his  alluring  adventure 
to  be  nothing  but  this  mole-like  creeping,  leading 
perchance  to  nothing  but  a  vermin's  death?  And 
this  still,  dumb  creature  that  went  by  his  side,  hold- 
ing her  fears  under  her  pride  and  meanwhile  scarce 
concealing  her  disdain  for  him  whom  a  bend  of  the 
finger  and  a  look  over  the  shoulder  had  sufficed  to 
draw  blindly  after  her  —  should  she  not  repay  him 
for  his  folly  of  submissiveness  ?  Was  he  not  to 
secure  —  whatever  else  these  caves  held  in  store  for 
him  —  the  present  good  at  least  of  kisses  ? 

He  wheeled  round  upon  her  with  a  sharp  move- 
ment :  there  was  a  dancing  light,  not  over-sane,  in 
his  eyes.  —  At  the  same  moment,  as  if  a  kindred 
tinge  of  madness  had  infected  her  own  spirits,  the 
girl  clutched  him  by  the  arm. 


The  Great  White  Deeps  125 

"Speak!"  she  cried.  "Say  something,  or  the 
silence  of  this  awful  place  will  make  me  scream." 

His  strange  passion  broke  loose  then,  like  straining 
dogs  from  the  leash.  He  caught  her  to  him,  and  with 
how  hard  a  grip  he  himself  was  all  unconscious ;  and 
holding  up  the  lantern  devoured  her  beauty  with 
fierce  gaze.     And  he  called  back  to  her :  — 

"Speak?  Ay,  that  will  I!  Tell  you  how 
maddening  you  are,  and  how,  if  it  be  death  you 
are  leading  me  to,  I  shall  not  complain  so  you  first 
make  the  end  of  life  sweet.  Lucy,  white  witch ! 
Temptress!  ..." 

He  bent  to  kiss  her ;  but  she  flung  her  hand  over 
her  face,  and  then,  with  frenzied  outward  gesture, 
thrust  him  from  her. 

The  very  feeling  of  the  pitiableness  of  her  strength 
in  his  grasp,  the  sudden  trembling  that  seized  her  as 
he  had  held  her,  brought  him  to  himself.  But  if  the 
strength  of  her  woman's  body  was  small,  not  so  that 
of  her  woman's  spirit.  She  flamed  upon  him  in 
such  fury  that  all  the  echoes  surprised  and  caught  the 
notes  of  her  voice  and  flung  them  one  to  the  other  till 
the  whole  weird  region  seemed  alive. 

"  I  trusted  myself  to  your  honour !  Is  this  how 
my  countryman  keeps  his  promise  to  a  woman  in  dis- 
tress?   Or  perhaps  you  imagine,  sir,  that  the  mere 


126  The  Great  White  Deeps 

sight  of  you  in  your  red  cloak  has  been  too  much  for 
my  maiden  heart,  and  that  was  why  I  have  lured  you 
after  me  ?  Faith !  Then  the  place  of  intrigue  is 
well  chosen.  I  need  fear  at  least  no  rival  to  distract 
your  attention.  .  .  .     Oh,  Mr.  Mildmay!" 

Reproach,  indignation,  jeer  —  she  rang  the  whole 
gamut  of  her  anger.  Her  words  stung  him  from  his 
shame  into  a  new  irritation. 

"Madam,"  he  retorted,  "I  would  remind  you  that 
it  is  I  who  have  trusted  myself  to  you.  I  asked  no 
question.  In  all  this  mystery  there  is  but  one  thing 
clear  to  me,  and  it  is :  that  this  seems  a  strange  place 
for  seeking  safety." 

By  the  light  of  the  lantern  he  saw  her  pale  face 
change.     Contempt  faded  from  her  lips. 

"  I  warned  you  of  the  danger  ! "  she  cried  earnestly. 

"No,  Lucy,"  he  returned;  "you  taunted  me  with 
the  fear  of  it." 

Convicted,  she  had  not  a  word.  But  then  all  his 
chivalrous  manhood  woke  up  again,  and  he  repented 
him. 

"Never  mind,"  said  he,  comfortingly;  "I  would 
do  it  again,  for  your  sweet  sake." 

"For  my  sake!"  she  echoed  quickly.  Her  eyes 
flashed  a  sombre  fire.  "And  do  you  think  I  would 
have  brought  you  here  thus  for  myself?    Are  you 


The  Great  White  Deeps  127 

really  so  simple  as  to  think  that  a  poor  girl  like  me 
could  have  enemies  so  powerful?  No,  sir,  other 
issues  were  at  stake  —  something  more  than  life 
indeed.  Oh !  we  have  gone  so  far,  I  will  tell  you 
now,  and  it  may  wake  you  to  a  better  pride  in  your- 
self, sir,  than  that  which  led  you  to  insult  me.  A 
cause,  a  nation's  hopes,  were  trembling  in  the  bal- 
ance. We  were  in  dire  straits,  knew  not  which  way 
to  turn,  pressed  for  time,  when,  with  a  flash  of  your 
crimson  cloak,  came  to  me  the  inspiration  — " 

"My  cloak?" 

"Ay,  sir,  your  red  cloak,  after  all;  and  it  now 
wraps,  please  God,  one  for  whom  you  should  be 
ready  to  dye  it  yet  deeper  crimson  in  your  best  heart's 
blood  !  You  serve  a  nobler  cause  than  you  wot  of ; 
and  if  you  and  I  both  lay  down  our  lives  to-night 
we  shall  have  but  given  them  up  for  one  who  has  the 
right  to  demand  them." 

His  breath  came  short. 

"Our  lives!"  He  scarce  dared  understand  her. 
Then  with  a  flash  of  intuition  that  seemed,  as  it  were, 
to  start  afresh  all  the  settling  birds  of  surmise  to  wild 
flight  in  his  brain,  so  that  it  was  filled  with  beating 
wings :  — 

"  Sister  Bonnefoy  ! "  he  cried. 

Lucy  made  no  reply,  and  Everard  repeated  with 


128  The  Great  White  Deeps 

conviction:  "Sister  Bonnefoy!"  He  remembered 
the  mistrustful,  watching  eye  and  the  passion  with 
which  Lucy  had  prostrated  herself.  And  his  soul 
was  filled  with  anger. 

"My  life,"  he  said,  "belongs  to  the  King  of  France." 

"Right!"  she  cried  sharply.  "And  therefore  re- 
proach me  not  that  I  tricked  you.  For  had  I  asked 
your  help  for  another  King,  what  then  would  you 
have  said  to  me?" 

His  gaze  grew  troubled,  his  eyes  dilated. 

"I  must  have  said,  'A  man  may  not  serve  two 
masters.'" 

"Then  Madame  de  Vasse  was  right,"  she  said  re- 
gretfully.    "I  would  have  trusted  you." 

"Madame  de  Vasse!"    he  exclaimed. 

It  was  with  the  name  of  that  notoriously  beautiful 
and  self-willed  woman  that  had  always  been  asso- 
ciated at  court  the  Young  Pretender's  obstinate  refu- 
sal to  leave  France  (as  stipulated  by  the  Treaty  of 
Aachen) ;  refusal  which  had  led  to  the  disgraceful 
scene  of  his  arrest  but  a  year  before. 

"Therefore  I  did  well  —  I  did  well!"  Lucy  re- 
sumed and  smiled  with  a  sort  of  triumph.  "And 
now  to  draw  back  would  be  worse  than  to  go  on. 
Let  us  on,  then,  Mr.  Mildmay!" 

"One  word  more,"  he  panted. 


The  Great  White  Deeps  129 

"Not  a  word  !"  said  she,  and  forced  him  onwards. 

"But  surely,"  he  insisted,  "a  man  has  the  right 
to  be  told  for  whom  he  may  have  to  die,  and  why, 
and  how!    I  don't  understand  what  part  I  — !" 

"Why,  Everard  Mildmay,"  she  interrupted  with 
deep  reproach,  "have  you  already  forgotten  you  were 
once  a  loyal  Englishman  ?  Your  father's  head  bore 
witness  to  another  spirit  when  last  I  passed  under 
Temple  Bar!" 

He  was  silenced.  In  very  truth  he  was  ashamed 
to  have  questioned  where  he  already  knew.  But 
he  was  far  from  being  elated,  or  even  satisfied,  with 
his  role.  It  is  one  thing  for  a  man  to  devote  himself 
—  and  he  would  have  given  the  last  drop  of  his  blood 
for  the  Cause,  as  his  father  had  before  him  —  it  is 
quite  a  different  thing  to  be  made  the  tool  of  another's 
loyalty.  For  a  long  while  the  Cornet  went  his  way 
beside  his  fair  companion  without  speaking ;  and  so 
strong  is  human  nature  that  he  forgot  the  many  sur- 
rounding perils  and  his  responsibilities  in  a  keen  sense 
of  personal  annoyance. 

"I  am  tired,"  said  Lucy  suddenly,  and  leaving 
his  side  went  and  sat  down  on  a  block  of  stone. 
Everard  looked  around  him  with  a  start.  They 
had  emerged,  apparently,  from  the  water-logged  area, 
and  were  again  at  some  intersecting  ways  which 


130  The  Great  White  Deeps 

required  the  help  of  the  compass.  He  moved  back 
some  paces  to  place  his  lantern  on  a  convenient  ledge, 
and  was  about  to  stretch  out  his  plan,  when  a  stifled 
cry  brought  him  to  her  side  in  a  few  bounds. 

She  was  pointing  with  rigid  finger  towards  the  gap- 
ing spaces  they  had  just  left.  At  the  same  instant 
there  was  a  beat  of  steps  behind  him. 

He  wheeled  round.  In  a  second  one  of  the  pistols 
was  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  peering  he  scarce  knew 
at  what. 

"Halt  there,"  he  called  in  sharp  military  French, 
"or  I  fire!" 

Clear  as  was  his  voice  the  words  rolled  confusedly, 
and  were  echoed  fantastically  through  the  labyrinths. 
A  black  form  had  already  detached  itself  from  the 
outer  blacknesses  and  crept  into  the  narrow  area  of 
light  thrown  by  the  lantern  some  twenty  feet  away, 
when  the  crisp  click  of  the  locks  brought  it  to  a 
sudden  standstill. 

"Des  pistolets  .  .  .  gare!''  cried  a  hoarse  French 
voice,  and  the  figure  disappeared  behind  a  pillar. 
But  the  only  answer  to  the  warning  was  an  angry 
growl  from  the  depths  behind  and  the  shuffle  of 
running  feet  among  the  stones.  A  man  dashed  past 
the  light :  to  fall  upon  his  face  as  the  flash  of  Ever- 
ard's  pistol  leaped  at  him,  red  and  long,  with  such 


The  Great  White  Deeps  131 

thundering  amid  these  caverns  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  world  was  blasted.  The  echoes  had  scarce  time 
to  send  back  their  counterfeit  roar  before  new  clan- 
gours broke  forth  —  crash  upon  crash  rending  the 
heavy  air ;  thud  after  thud  shaking  the  soil.  Sounds 
of  collapsing  pillars,  subsiding  roofs,  avalanching 
rocks,  broke  forth  from  the  great  vaults  they  had  just 
passed  through. 

Everard  was  bending  forward,  his  second  pistol 
at  the  ready,  striving  through  the  faint  light,  made 
fainter  yet  by  the  powder  smoke,  to  see  the  effect  of 
his  shot.  The  appalling  turmoil  for  the  moment 
paralysed  his  wits.  As  he  stood  rigid,  one  hand  still 
holding  Lucy  behind  the  shelter  of  his  own  body,  a 
last  crash  broke  about  them,  nearer,  and  with  it 
rang  a  fearful  yell;  still  more  fearfully  cut  short. 
And  at  the  same  instant  the  light  went  out,  the  world 
became  solid  blackness.  And  the  hideous  silence 
settled  upon  them  once  more. 

As,  slowly,  the  reaction  came,  and  his  brain  began 
to  work  again,  he  set  himself  in  a  half  dazed  way  to 
piece  together  what  had  happened. 

The  shock  of  the  pistol-shot  had  brought  down 
some  of  these  rotten  pillars,  the  instability  of  which 
he  remembered  noticing  with  anxiety  but  a  few 
moments  before;   and  the  waylayers  (whoever  they 


132  The  Great  White  Deeps 

might  be)  now  lay  buried  under  the  ruins,  with  the 
lantern.  The  lantern !  The  whole  unspeakable 
horror  of  the  situation  burst  upon  him.  His  brow 
grew  clammy  with  an  icy  sweat ;  his  breath  stopped 
—  stopped,  too,  the  very  pulse  of  his  heart. 

A  warm  young  voice  called  upon  him ;  warm  young 
arms  clasped  him ;  he  felt  upon  his  hand  the  falling 
of  warm  tears. 

"We  are  going  to  die  here,  and  it  is  I  —  it  is  I  who 
brought  you  to  this !     Oh,  forgive  !" 

She  held  him  close,  pressing  herself  against  him, 
and  laid  her  face  against  his  breast.  The  touch  of 
the  frail  arms,  claiming  as  it  were  unconsciously  the 
protection  of  his  man's  strength,  even  while,  in  her 
sweet  woman's  soul,  she  forgot  her  own  peril  to  la- 
ment his,  revived  all  the  manhood  in  him.  The 
very  perfume  of  her  hair,  rising  to  his  nostrils  in  the 
dark,  called  up  a  vision  of  all  the  joys  of  a  fair  earth, 
of  a  beauty  of  life  greater  than  he  had  ever  realised 
before.  No,  they  should  not  die  without  a  fight ! 
The  clogging  mantle  of  helplessness  fell  from  him; 
the  blood  rushed  back  to  heart  and  brain. 

"Courage,  Lucy,"  he  whispered  —  his  lips  were 
on  her  silken  strands  of  hair  —  "I  shall  still  lead  you 
out  of  this,  if  I  have  to  grope  upon  my  knees.  There 
is  not  so  far  to  go  that  we  should  lose  hope." 


The  Great  White  Deeps  133 

Her  nimble  feminine  wits  leaped  to  his  brave 
impulse. 

"Yes  —  quick!"  she  cried.  "The  flint,  the  steel 
.  .  .  matches!" 

Hastily  he  struck,  and  the  sparks  flew  in  showers. 
And  in  their  lurid  light  he  saw  her  fair  face,  close, 
eager,  almost  with  a  smile  upon  the  parted  lips ;  saw 
and  thought  that  in  all  the  wide  free  ways  of  the  world 
above  he  had  never  seen  anything  more  lovely  than 
this  flower  in  the  vaults  of  death.  Then  darkness 
fell  again,  yet  for  that  look,  he  forgot  everything. 
But  under  the  next  flashes  the  tinder  glowed  and 
the  match  found  its  fire.  He  held  it  aloft  and 
once  more  they  started  on  their  precarious  pil- 
grimage ;  with  many  stops,  many  anxious  consulta- 
tions of  the  plan  by  the  uncertain  glimmer;  with 
much  stumbling  over  unseen  obstacles ;  with  much 
husbanding  of  the  little  store  of  pinewood  splinters ; 
pressed  one  against  the  other  without  speaking,  yet 
with  every  thought  consorting.  At  last,  upon  one 
of  these  halts,  he  paused  so  long  over  the  plan  that 
the  little  torch  burned  down  to  his  very  nails.  He 
fumbled  in  his  pockets.  She  heard  his  breath 
come  short. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered. 

"  The  last  match ! "    He  barely  breathed  the  words. 


134  The  Great  White  Deeps 

An  icy  pall  had  fallen  upon  them.  After  a  long 
while  she  said,  very  low :  — 

"Then  this  is  death!" 

And  as  the  man  in  him  strove  still  feebly  to  com- 
fort the  woman  with  deceitful  hope,  she  interrupted 
him  gently :  — 

"No,  no,  Everard!"  And  then,  laying  both  her 
hands  against  him:  "Kiss  me,"  she  said,  "that  I 
may  know  you  forgive  !" 

And  so,  in  the  darkness,  in  their  living  tomb,  as 
they  thought,  these  two  poor  children  kissed.  And 
as  they  pressed  one  against  the  other,  upholding  each 
other,  each  trying  to  comfort  the  other,  each  thinking 
for  the  other.  Love  was  borne  to  them  —  the  love 
that  is  stronger  than  death. 

A  span  —  they  could  not  have  said  whether  long 
or  short,  for,  as  if  they  had  already  crossed  the  boun- 
daries of  life,  the  measure  of  time  was  lost  to  them  — 
they  stood  thus.  Then  the  silence  that  had  begun 
to  roar  into  their  ears  like  a  tide  of  great  waters, 
was  riven  by  a  faint  distant  cry,  like  a  call  of  distress 
across  a  sea  of  storm.  They  started  from  their  trance- 
like stillness  and  hearkened :  and  the  sense  of  life 
returned  to  them. 

From  far  away,  from  some  unknown  direction 
amid  the  stone  mazes,  it  drew  upon  them,  rising  and 


The  Great  White  Deeps  135 

falling;  now  seeming  to  retreat,  now  to  approach, 
then  ever  louder,  ever  nearer  —  a  sort  of  nightmare 
howl.  And  then  it  became  a  confused  medley  of 
lamentations  and  yelping  sobs,  the  mad  babbling 
voice  of  terror.  And  presently,  words,  incoherent 
but  distinguishable  —  English  words,  by  all  that 
was  fantastic  !  —  fell  upon  their  ears. 

"Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!  .  .  .  Lost! 
I  am  lost !    Toby  is  lost !    Oh,  Lord  !     Oh,  Lord  ! " 

A  moment  it  might  have  seemed  as  if  their  own  fear 
had  taken  some  devil-shape  and  was  let  loose  upon 
them.  But  the  next  instant,  dancing  upon  the  wall 
some  twenty  feet  away,  appeared  a  faint  gleam  of 
light  —  a  blessed  ray.  And  suddenly,  a  man  bear- 
ing a  lantern  dashed  into  the  wider  gallery  on  the 
edge  of  which  they  stood  and  began  wildly  circling 
round  like  a  frenzied  dog,  still  wailing  his  mad  itera- 
tion to  the  echoes. 

With  the  new  hope  a  keen  decisiveness  leaped  into 
Everard's  soul.  He  took  a  step  forward,  and  in  a 
second  had  cocked  his  pistol  and  was  taking  aim. 

"Stop,  fellow!" 

His  voice  rang  like  a  clarion.  The  man  stopped 
as  if  he  had  been  shot,  wheeled  round ;  then  with  a 
screech  ran  towards  them. 

Everard,  his  weapon  levelled  in  the  right  hand, 


136  TJte  Great  White  Deeps 

took  with  the  left  nimble  possession  of  the  light. 
But,  far  from  resisting,  the  creature  sank  to  the 
ground,  embracing  the  young  man's  knees :  — 

"Oh!  oh!  take  me  out  of  this!  You  will  take 
me  out  of  this  !  I  am  lost,  lost  —  a  poor  English  lad  ! 
Those  French  devils,  they  set  me  on  guard  at  a  cross- 
way  and  left  me  !  —  God  blast  them  !  I  was  all 
alone,  with  the  whole  place  falling  about !  Ugh ! 
And  I  have  been  running  for  hours,  hours,  and  there's 
no  way  through,  and  my  candle  is  burning  down ! 
Oh,  take  me  out !  If  you  will  only  take  me  out  I'll 
tell  your  honour  all,  I'll  give  your  honour  his  re- 
venge." 

"Oh  !  you'll  give  me  my  revenge?"  said  the  Cor- 
net grimly.  "I  think  I  begin  to  understand.  But 
I  have  had  my  revenge,  sirrah.  And  what  is  there 
to  keep  me  from  shooting  you,  too,  and  leaving  your 
carcase  to  rot  here  with  the  rest  of  your  gang? 
Strange  doings  for  an  honest  English  lad,  to  join  with 
French  devils  to  track  down  and  murder  an  English 
gentleman!  Well,  up  with  you!"  cried  Everard, 
as  the  man  with  a  new  howl  of  despair  rolled  a  shock 
head  against  his  knees.  "Up  with  you,  and  on! 
The  wretch  is  right,  Lucy.  That  candle  would  not 
have  lasted  long,  but  it  will  see  us  through." 

And  the  strange  companions  started  upon  their 


The  Great  White  Deeps  137 

way.  Soon  they  emerged  into  what,  according  to  the 
plan,  was  the  gallery  opening  into  the  fields  of  Vau- 
girard.  Freer  airs  began  to  circulate,  colder  and 
colder ;  and,  though  they  were  now  able  to  advance 
rapidly,  the  freezing  temperature  of  the  outer  world 
struck  deadly  chill  upon  their  shaken  nerves.  Lucy 
shivered,  and  wrapped  her  hooded  cloak  about  her 
as  close  as  she  could.  Toby,  the  crestfallen  ruffian, 
after  walking  awhile  within  the  circle  of  light  in  de- 
jected obedience,  began  by  degrees  to  pluck  up  his 
base  spirits  as  they  obviously  drew  near  safety. 
Every  now  and  then  he  half  turned  round  to  cast 
upon  his  deliverers  a  look  of  cunning  and  of 
singular  malignity. 

At  the  last  corner  Lucy  laid  her  fingers  on 
Everard's  hand  and  pointed  to  where,  across  a  fallen 
block  of  freestone,  a  long  bramble  was  stretching  in 
from  the  outer  soil  into  the  shelter  of  the  caves, 
heralding  the  end  of  their  journey.  He  halted  a 
moment  to  share  with  her  the  joy  of  deliverance 
written  upon  her  quivering  face.  When  he  turned 
round  again  their  rascally  fellow-traveller  was  gone. 
Everard  looked  grave  for  a  moment,  but  then 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  doubt,"  he  said,  "if  even  now  our  poor  country 
could  produce  a  more  pitiful  wretch.    Oh,  I  under- 


138  The  Great  White  Deeps 

stand  !"  he  went  on  quickly  as  the  girl  seemed  about 
to  speak.  "Here  was  another  wolf  upon  the  trail 
of  blood.  Faugh  !  Let  him  run  and  seek  his  ver- 
min's fate  elsewhere.  Now,  Lucy,  to  be  under 
God's  skies  once  more!" 

As  he  spoke  the  flickering  wick  of  the  candle  fell 
over,  and  the  light  went  out.  But  beyond  the  jagged 
opening  there  was  the  light  of  the  stars.  And  in 
another  moment  they  stood  free ;  the  night  air,  aus- 
tere in  its  cold  purity,  cleansing  them  from  the 
earthy  taint  of  the  quarries. 

They  stood  awhile,  close  side  by  side,  to  taste  the 
ecstasy.  Once  more  they  heard  homely  sounds  of 
life  —  it  seemed  a  cycle  since  they  had  known  such 
things  —  a  dog  barking  in  a  distant  farmyard,  an- 
swered by  another  yet  further  off;  away  along  a 
road  the  trot  of  some  willing  horse  carrying  some 
unknown  rider  to  some  unknown  goal ;  the  cry  of  a 
night  bird  startled  under  a  snow-laden  bush;  then 
suddenly  the  impatient  stamp  of  a  hoof,  the  jingle 
of  harness.  And,  indeed,  in  the  faint  glimmer 
of  starlight  a  short  distance  away,  was  seen  upon  the 
snow  the  dark  outline  of  a  coach  and  the  gleam 
of  its  lamps. 

Again  Lucy  laid  her  hand  upon  his.  He  could  but 
descry  the  outline  of  her  face,  but  she  spoke  with  a 


The  Great  White  Deeps  139 

nervous  ring  of  girlish  laughter  in  her  voice,  new  to 
him:  — 

"And  now,  my  gallant  cavalier,  you  will  bear  me 
no  grudge  for  one  last  little  mystification  ..." 

But  pursuing  fate  had  not  yet  done  with  them  — 
the  words  of  pretty  mockery  passed  suddenly  into  a 
wild  shriek. 

There  was  a  tearing  rush  from  the  brambles,  as  of 
a  boar  breaking  cover.  Before  Everard  could  even 
turn  round,  something  horrible,  something  thick 
and  yet  flexible,  clinging  like  an  unspeakable  living 
sheet,  glutinous,  slimy,  was  dashed  over  his  face, 
and  with  fiendish  twist  rolled  round  his  head,  blind- 
ing, inexorably  choking.  It  gripped  so  close  that 
not  a  sound  could  escape  him.  Through  his  furious 
efforts  to  tear  off  the  thing  he  could  hear  Lucy  scream 
again.  He  reeled  round,  stumbled,  fell  on  his  side. 
He  knew  that  in  another  minute  he  would  be  dead, 
as  surely  suffocated  as  by  twenty  fathoms  of  water. 
But  he  had  barely  touched  ground  before  he  was  again 
seized  upon  and  raised  to  his  feet,  whilst  strong  hands 
hastily  unrolled  the  cruel  cloth,  which  clung  so  tena- 
ciously that  it  only  yielded  with  a  sound  as  of  tearing 
silk ;  to  be  wrenched  away  at  last,  leaving  his  face 
streaming  with  blood.  But  little  recked  he  of  the  smart- 
ing pain,  so  exquisite  was  the  blessed  air  to  his  lungs. 


14©  The  Great  White  Deeps 

Gasping  and  dazed  he  stood  contemplating  a  scene 
which  was  yet  further  bewilderment.  He  was  now 
surrounded  by  a  number  of  men,  in  the  sombre  uni- 
form  of  the  marechaussie,  that  seemed  to  have  sprung 
in  fantastic  manner  from  the  soil.  Two  of  these  were 
converging  upon  him  the  rays  of  dark  lanterns,  an- 
other was  supporting  the  half -fainting  form  of  Lucy ; 
a  few  paces  away  two  or  three  more  were  occupied  in 
tricing  up  Toby,  the  honest  English  lad,  in  spite  of 
his  frantic  struggles. 

Now  one,  who  was  evidently  in  command,  ad- 
vanced, hat  in  hand,  and  bowed  deeply. 

"Monseigneur,"  said  he  in  French,  "I  find  that  I 
have  been  happy  enough  to  be  the  instrument  of 
saving  your  Highness's  life." 

"Highness,  sir?"  cried  Everard,  whose  wits  were 
still  somewhat  scattered. 

"Your  Highness  finds  us  well  informed,"  answered 
the  other,  bowing  with  a  gratified  smile.  Then,  with 
renewed  gravity,  he  proceeded :  — 

"  Now,  sir,  in  the  King's  name,  I  arrest  you.  I  trust 
your  Highness  will  find  less  cause  for  resentment 
than  on  the  occasion  when  M.  Vaudreuil  —  my  name, 
sir,  is  Beuvrey  —  so  brutally  carried  your  Highness 
from  the  Opera." 

"  M.  de  Beuvrey,"  returned  the  Comet, "  I  am  grate- 


The  Great  White  Deeps  141 

ful  for  your  courtesy.  But  I  must  tell  you  you  are  in 
error  when  you  address  me  thus.     My  name  is  — " 

Lucy  had  suddenly  released  herself  from  the  arms 
that  supported  her. 

"Monseigneur  is  safe!"  she  cried,  with  a  wild 
thrill  in  her  voice.  And  Everard,  remembering  her 
half  confidences,  stood  abashed,  biting  his  lip.  But 
he  was  spared  the  trouble  of  mending  his  mistake 
by  the  officer's  next  words :  — 

"  By  what  name,  then,  will  Monseigneur  be  pleased 
to  be  called  ?  "  he  inquired  with  another  deep  bow. 

"Since  you  will  have  it  so,"  answered  the  young 
man,  smiling,  yet  not  without  a  side-thought  of  the 
Bastille,  "it  is  my  pleasure  to  be  called  Mildmay." 
Then  he  added,  with  a  secret  malicious  enjoyment  of 
his  enforced  role  of  deception,  '*I  may  be  permitted, 
I  presume,  to  confer  with  this  lady  a  moment?" 

But  the  officer  interposed  hastily. 

"Monseigneur  will  forgive  me  if  I  implore  him  to 
come  with  me  now.  He  will  have  every  opportunity 
by-and-by,  and  may  rest  assured  that  Madame  will 
receive  every  attention.  —  Will  not  your  Highness 
honour  me  by  leaning  on  my  arm?  Monseigneur 
is  much  shaken,  and  no  wonder,"  pursued  M.  de 
Beuvrey,  "and  his  face  will  require  the  care  of  a 
surgeon." 


142  The  Great  White  Deeps 

"Yes.  And,  by  the  way,"  said  Everard,  halting 
to  cast  back  a  look  in  the  prisoner's  direction,  "that 
man,  my  assailant  —  ?" 

"Oh,  sir,  rest  assured  he  shall  be  dealt  with  as  he 
deserves.  Sacripant,  with  his  masque  d'empois! 
That  birdlime  towel,  sir  —  an  invention  of  Car- 
touche, the  brigand.  We  had  thought  it  had  re- 
mained his  secret.  But  this  man  —  an  Englishman, 
too  —  seems  to  have  been  an  expert  at  it.  Well,  I 
am  overjoyed  it  was  no  Frenchman  assaulted  your 
Highness.  He  is  no  doubt  one  of  the  gang  who 
meant  to  earn  to-night  the  thirty  thousand  livres 
offered,  as  we  hear,  by  the  —  by  someone  in  England 
for  the  head  of  — " 

"Of  Mr.  Mildmay,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Cornet, 
ironically. 

"Of  Mr.  Mildmay,"  assented  the  police  officer, 
respectfully.  "  When  His  Majesty  was  informed  that 
a  price  had  infamously  been  put  upon  your  head,  he 
was  anxious  that  the  arrest  (to  which  treaties  bind 
him)  should  not  be  delayed,  were  it  only  as  a  means 
of  safety.  We  could,  of  course,  have  carried  you 
away  from  your  retreat  in  the  convent  of  St.  Eliza- 
beth; but  the  King  is  desirous  to  avoid  any  such 
scandal  as  that  of  last  year.  And  then  we  knew  — 
the  police  know  most  things  —  of  your  intention  to 


The  Great  White  Deeps  143 

come  out  by  Vaugirard  quarries.  Yonder  scoundrel 
seems  to  have  discovered  your  Highness's  intended 
movements  also ;  for  this  man  was  undoubtedly  one 
of  the  emissaries  charged  with  ...  he  had,  I  find, 
a  canvas  sack  and  a  butcher's  knife  about  him  !" 

Upon  this  last  startling  item  of  information  they 
had  reached  the  coach,  into  which  Everard  was 
assisted  as  became  his  supposed  rank.  The  officer 
took  a  seat  facing  him;  and  then,  to  the  young 
man's  joy,  Lucy  was  ushered  in  beside  him. 

"Forgive  me,  sir,  for  presuming  to  give  orders  in 
your  own  coach,"  said  in  honey  tone  the  elegant  police 
officer.  "The  King  has  selected  Ch^teau-Gaillon 
as  your  Highness's  permanent  residence,  but  to-night, 
to  save  you  fatigue,  we  stop  at  Vincennes.  The 
carriage  will  then  convey  madame  back  to  the  House 
of  St.  Elizabeth." 

And  now  the  carriage,  surrounded  by  a  small 
mounted  escort,  rolled  rapidly  away,  circling  round 
Paris  outside  the  barriers.. 

In  the  semi-darkness  Lucy  sought  the  young  man's 
hand  and  pressed  it ;  and  while  M.  de  Beuvrey  dis- 
creetly looked  out  upon  the  starlit  snow,  she  brought 
her  fresh  lips  to  his  bleeding  ear  and  whispered :  — 

"Everard,  to-night,  while  they  are  looking  for 


144  The  Great  White  Deeps 

their  prisoner  here  and  wasting  their  time  on  us,  Sister 
Charles  Edward  Stuart  is  posting  towards  the  sea  in 
the  cloak,  hat,  and  spurs  of  a  Gensdarme  Anglois, 
and  to-morrow  night,  pray  God,  embarks  safely. 
Now  you  know  all.  —  Nay,  listen  still :  you  must  soon 
be  liberated,  but  meanwhile  nothing  you  could 
say  will  convince  this  man  of  his  error.  You  do  not 
mind  remaining  an  august  person  yet  a  little  while? 
You  have  sped  your  prince  towards  his  throne,  per- 
haps .  .  .  and  you  have  earned  the  gratitude  of 
Lucy." 

"Only  gratitude?"  he  whispered  back  eagerly. 
But  by  the  flickering  glow  from  the  carriage  lamps 
he  saw  her  smile,  and  it  was  a  smile  full  of  sweet 
promises. 

After  two  days  of  respectful  detention,  one  in  a 
travelHng  chaise,  the  other  in  the  decidedly  tolerable 
duress  of  Ch^teau-Gaillon,  Comet  Mildmay  (who 
had  wisely  reiterated  his  protestation  that  Mildmay 
was  indeed  his  name)  was  released  from  custody  — 
with  a  somewhat  sudden  decline  of  ceremony  but 
not  without  soldierlike  cordiality  —  and  brought 
back,  at  his  Majesty's  expense,  to  his  door  in  the 
Rue  Ste.  Placide,  just  in  time  to  get  ready  for  a 
resumption  of  duty. 


The  Great  White  Deeps  145 

Upon  his  bed  he  found  a  parcel  containing  the 
borrowed  articles  of  uniform  (with  one  exception), 
and  two  letters.  One  was  signed  "  Sister  Bonnefoy," 
and  contained  some  singularly  ill-spelt  phrases  of 
vague  and  haughty  acknowledgment ;  it  was  tossed 
on  one  side  with  something  of  disappointment  and 
impatience.  But  the  wording  of  the  other  brought  a 
glow  to  his  cheek  and  a  gleam  to  his  eyes :  — 

"When  will  my  preux  chevalier  come  across  the 
way  to  have  his  spurs  of  gold  buckled  on  once 
more?" 

He  rushed  to  his  balcony.  The  shutters  in  the 
grey  walls  opposite  were  open,  and  the  white  vision 
rose  against  the  dark  background. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Cornet,  cloaked  and 
dressed  to  regulation,  though  still  spurless,  was 
knocking  at  the  discreet  door  of  St.  Elizabeth. 


MY  RAPIER  AND   MY   DAUGHTER 


IV 

MY  RAPIER  AND  MY  DAUGHTER 


In  the  year  1595,  Master  Vincent,  the  rapier  and 
dagger  man,  kept  his  school  in  the  narrow-fronted 
but  substantial  house  in  Knight-Rider  Street  at  the 
southwest  corner  of  Paul's  Chains.  It  faced  on 
three  ways ;  for  behind  it  ran  the  blind  alley,  Garden 
Lane,  so  called  because  it  abutted  against  the  in- 
closed gardens  at  the  back  of  Baynard's  Castle. 

The  building  was  tall.  From  the  topmost  gable- 
room,  looking  down  over  the  serried  roofs  that 
seemed  to  slide  on  the  slope  of  Blackfriars  towards 
the  Thames  side,  there  was  a  fair  view  of  the  wide 
water-way,  with  its  innumerable  crafts,  its  ceaseless 
animation ;  and,  looking  up  towards  the  great  heart 
of  the  town,  one  could  see  the  Gothic  buttresses 
and  the  unrepaired  steeple  of  old  St.  Paul's. 

This  upper  and  retired  room  was  Master  Vincent's 

own  sanctum,  reserved  to  the  great  man's  personal 

149 


150  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

intercourse  with  the  more  advanced  scholars,  or  with 
those  of  special  quality.  Here  were  precious  secret 
thrusts  revealed  with  due  solemnity ;  abstract  points 
of  honourable  difficulties  philosophically  made  clear. 

Tyrones  were  handed  over  for  their  rudiments  to 
one  Heronymo  —  the  Provost,  as  he  was  called  — 
Master  Vincent's  lieutenant  with  the  foil,  and  his 
trusty  factotum  besides.  Their  practice  took  place 
in  the  lower  room,  a  wide  apartment  raised  some  few 
feet  from  the  level  of  Knight-Rider  Street ;  wonder- 
fully light  and  airy  for  a  city  house,  lit  by  high, 
broad  casements  on  the  three  sides.  There,  between 
two  doors  —  one  leading  to  the  upper  sanctum,  the 
other  opening  on  the  stairs  —  the  wall  was  fitted  in 
rows  with  trophies  of  fencing  weapons.  At  the 
further  end  was  a  broad  pillar,  cased  with  wood 
to  man's  height,  used  for  hacking  and  thrusting 
practice.  A  few  benches  and  a  table  provided  with 
a  standish  and  writing  materials,  completed  the  fur- 
niture of  what  was  known  as  Saviolo's  Academy. 

For  some  years  already  the  neighbourhood  had 
grown  reconciled  to  the  rousing  din  that  at  certain 
hours  proceeded  from  the  open  windows  of  Master 
Vincent's  house ;  had  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  high- 
pitched  Italianate  yells,  the  round  English  oaths  of 
his  scholars :    at  their  Hay-la !  .  .  .    Have-at-thee- 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  151 

now !  —  Yes  ?  —  No,  Sirrah !  Here,  then  I  —  A  hit, 
by  St.  Paul !  —  A  ha,  the  punta-riversa !  Indeed  the 
clink  and  clash  of  steel,  the  stamping  and  shuffling 
of  feet,  and  ever  the  joyous  catches  of  laughter,  had 
become  recognised  as  a  part  of  life's  music  in  Paul's 
Chains.  It  heralded  good  business  to  ostlers  and 
to  keepers  of  taverns  or  ordinaries,  for  your  young 
fencers'  thirst  and  hunger  require  more  than  usual 
attention;  to  sword-cutler  and  loriner;  to  draper 
and  haberdasher,  for  your  poking  rapier-play  is 
fraught  with  rents  to  wearing  apparel ;  ay,  even  to 
human  skin !  Sundry  surgeon-barbers,  in  fact,  and 
more  than  one  apothecary  in  Blackfriars  had  seen 
competency  doubled  since  the  settling  of  Master 
Vincent  in  Knight-Rider  Street,  at  the  sign  of  the 
"Sword  Hand." 

Whether  or  no  Master  Vincent  —  or  rather,  to 
give  him  his  full  designation,  Signor  Vincentio 
Saviolo  —  possessed  that  invincible  skill  which,  in 
a  teacher  of  fence,  would  amount  to  genius,  at  least 
there  was  no  record  of  his  defeat  in  any  fair  encounter, 
whether  at  sharps  or  on  the  prize-stage.  And  if,  like 
all  new-comers,  he  had  bitter  detractors,  his  pupils 
one  and  all  swore  by  his  name.  In  any  case  the 
anglicised  Italian  was  by  far  the  most  prosperous 


152  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

man  of  his  calling  within  the  Queen's  realm  —  per- 
haps, indeed,  in  the  whole  of  Europe. 

The  mere  fact  of  having  struck  steel  and  discussed 
knotty  points  of  honour  in  Saviolo's  own  rooms  was 
in  itself  a  brevet  of  fashion.  The  high  fees  he 
exacted  were  eagerly  paid.  The  house  at  the  cross- 
ways  was  thronged  with  young  Templars  and  cour- 
tiers, with  town  gallants  and  country  gulls,  thirsting, 
some  merely  for  cunning  tricks  of  fence,  others  for 
the  latest  and  right  proper  cavaliero  sword-and-cloak 
deportment.  More,  in  fact,  wished  to  drink  in  the 
magnificent  stranger's  lessons  than  his  time  and 
temper  would  accommodate.  At  any  rate  he  would 
of  none  but  youths  of-  coat-armour:  of  such  only 
(he  was  wont  to  assert)  could  he  make  "your  true 
captains  of  complements."  William  Shakespeare 
was  well  acquaint  with  Saviolo's  "inner  room 
scholars"  in  the  Blackfriars  days;  with  "the  gentle- 
men of  the  very  first  house,  of  the  first  and  second 
cause";  with  "the  very  butcher  of  a  silk  button" 
himself. 

Midsummer  Day  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1595  was 
to  prove  a  red  letter  date  in  the  fulness  of  Saviolo's 
career. 

A  tall,  thin  man  of  forty  years,  sallow  of  face  and 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  153 

brown-red  of  hair,  with  sharp,  stern  features,  deep- 
set  grave  eyes  and  thick  brows  —  point  device  in  his 
dress  though  always  in  black  —  Master  Vincent  stood 
contemplating  with  suppressed  delight  (for  he  was, 
by  long  practice  of  decorum  if  not  by  nature,  self- 
possessed  even  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  company) 
a  freshly  printed,  newly  bound  book  that  lay  open 
on  his  table,  exhibiting  the  title  page :  — 

VINCENTIO 
SAVIOLO 

HIS  PRACTISE 

In  two  Bookes 

The  first  intreating  of  the  use  of  the  Rapier 

and  Dagger 

The  second,  of  Honor  and  honorable 

Quarrels 

This  volume  (fraught  with  the  subtle  joy  known 
to  the  composer  of  a  first  book  and  most  of  all  to  the 
Homo  unius  Lihri)  he  had  just  brought  back  from 
the  shop  of  John  Wolfe,  the  printer  thereof,  in  Paul's 
Churchyard.  With  extended  finger  he  turned  over 
the  pages,  verifying  the  catch-words;  then  harked 
back  to  the  dedication,  and  half  aloud  read  over  its 
opening  words :  — 


154  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

Ka  i\]t  Eifibt  l^onorable,  mg  gingular 
flooti  3Lort),  Itoftett  Earl  of  Essex  anli 
Etue,  Fiscount  l^errforti,  3Lorti  iFerrers 
of  Cfjartleg,  ISourdjier  antj  Eoufaam, 
i^agtcr  of  tfje  (J^ueen's  fEajestic's 
l^orse  ... 

then  let  his  eyes  be  lost,  bathed  in  a  solemnity  of 
satisfied  pride,  over  the  distant  view  of  shimmering 
Thames  at  rising  tide.  His  keen  glance  noted 
amid  the  throng  of  crafts  the  streamer  of  a  par- 
ticular barge,  and  recognised  its  gay  colours  and 
the  matchless  swing  of  its  oarsmen. 

"My  lord  in  person,  returning  from  Greenwich," 
said  he  to  himself.  "I  will  eyen  be  in  time  to  greet 
him  on  his  landing." 

He  took  down  from  the  wall  his  gilt-hatched  rapier 
—  latest  pattern  of  Bolognese  seven-ringed  hilts  — 
and,  left  leg  braced,  bust  erect  but  head  negligently 
bent  leftwards,  with  that  natty,  defiant,  one-action 
gesture  which  alone  was  worth  a  broad  piece  for  any 
gallant  to  learn,  hooked  it  on  the  carriages  at  his  belt. 
Next  he  placed  the  book  in  his  pouch,  on  the  other 
side,  under  the  guard  of  his  shell  dagger ;  then,  with 
hand  on  sword  depressing  the  pommel  until  the  tip 
of  his  scabbard  was  as  high  as  his  shoulders,  pro- 
ceeded grandly  downstairs. 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  155 

It  being  near  the  hour  of  mid-day  meals,  there 
were  but  two  occupants  left  in  the  practice-room: 
the  newest  scholar  and  Heronymo,  the  Provost. 
Both  were  still  hard  at  work;  the  latter  frowning, 
with  words  of  speeding  or  correction;  the  former 
sedulous,  and  panting  with  passes  and  lunges  at 
the  hacking-pillar.  They  stopped  and  bowed  as 
Saviolo  silently  passed  through;  and  whilst  Hero- 
nymo ran  to  open  the  outer  door  for  his  master,  the 
scholar  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  critically  mark- 
ing the  inimitable  bearing  of  head  and  shoulders, 
the  rhythm  of  spurs,  the  negotiation  of  corners,  steps 
and  doorways,  which  the  now  horizontal  length  of 
the  great  man's  scabbard  never  once  encountered. 

The  door  closed;  Saviolo  proceeded  towards 
Essex  House  by  the  Outer  Temple.  Meanwhile, 
within  the  school,  the  rudiments  of  rapier  fight  were 
resumed. 

The  stroke  under  study  that  morning  was  the 
punta-riversa,  Saviolo's  triumph  of  deadly  neatness 
in  the  art  of  returning  cut  by  thrust.  After  a  min- 
ute the  scholar  —  one  Hal  Greene,  a  pert,  squat, 
young  Templar,  drew  himself  up. 

"Now,  Heronymo,  a  truce!"  he  cried,  passing 
his  foil  to  the  left  hand  and  mopping  his  brow. 

The  Provost  shrugged  his  shoulders.     He  was  a 


156  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

dry,  spare,  black-avised  man  of  outlandish  mien 
and  accent ;  of  small  stature  —  yet  second  only  to 
Saviolo  in  point  of  sword  repute. 

"Rest!"  he  growled.  "Holy  Cavaliero  St. 
George !  And  pray,  young  master,  hope  you  ever 
to  master  the  noble  mystery  of  arms?" 

"Marry,  do  I  not?  See  how  I  sweat!"  returned 
the  youth  cheerfully. 

"Come,  master,  to  your  ward!"  the  Provost 
ordered  gruffly,  "Perhaps  the  great  Saviolo  may 
not  remain  so  long  with  ye  that  you  can  even  reach 
the  last  link  of  his  precious  chain  of  passes  and 
finctures.  .  .  .  Higher  the  fist,  sir,  as  I  ever  beseech 
you  !  And  the  nails  upward !  Sink  on  the  hams. 
So  !  Verily  this  pass  is  the  most  precious,  mark  me, 
to  make  hand  and  foot  in  concert  seek  the  mark 
chosen  of  your  eye.  Know  it  but  truly  and  ye  shall 
count  with  your  point  the  buttons  on  your  enemy's 
doublet,  whenever  it  please  you." 

On  the  words  of  this  flattering  promise  the  door 
was  opened  and  there  entered  briskly  a  tall  youth 
of  some  five  and  twenty  years  —  fair-haired  and 
brown-eyed,  best  type  of  English  manly  comeliness. 
He  was  arrayed  in  the  latest  courtly  style,  yet  wore 
the  short  walking-sword  which,  in  these  days  of 
lengthy  tucks,  seemed  oddly  old-fashioned. 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  157 

In  the  new-comer  Heronymo  recognised,  with 
dubious  interest,  one  Edward  Strange,  a  gentleman 
attached  to  the  household  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke ; 
of  gallant  reputation,  as  he  knew,  but  reputed  also 
to  be  intemperately  prejudiced  against  all  Italianate 
manners  in  general  and  a  sworn  contemner  of  new- 
fangle  rapier-play  in  particular. 

In  this  lad  of  mettle  —  who,  be  it  noted,  in  my 
Lord  Pembroke's  household  passed  also  for  a  poet  — 
the  old  English  style  of  fence  found  an  uncompro- 
mising champion;  one  whom,  up  to  this  midsum- 
mer day,  nothing  had  been  able  to  induce  even  to 
cross  the  innovating  foreigner's  threshold. 

But  if  Heronymo  for  one  fond  moment  believed  in  a 
conversion  of  the  arch-detractor  of  Saviolo's  worth,  he 
was  promptly  disabused .  The  youth  stopped  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  and,  without  even  doffing  his  cap :  — 

"Now,  even  as  I  thought!"  he  exclaimed.  "No 
need  to  seek  you  far,  Hal !  At  your  antics  as  usual 
—  at  the  scratching  and  the  ramping  with  your 
what-shall-call-it,  your  imbrocade,  reverse,  inverse, 
foh !  Perverse !  Apish  tricks,  lad,  that  never  yet 
stopped  an  honest  English  right-down  blow  !  " 

All  this  was  said  loud,  with  a  sneer  aimed  at  the 
scowling  teacher.  Lower,  but  in  earnest  tone,  he 
added :  — 


158  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

"Harry,  I  must  speak  with  thee.     Come  !" 

But  Heronymo  here  stepped  angrily  between  them. 

"Not  so!  Your  ward,  young  sir !  .  .  .  This  is 
no  Paul's  Walk  for  meetings  and  greetings  and  idle 
chatterings.  The  left  knee  bowed,  master!"  He 
gave  an  authoritative  tap  of  the  foil  on  Greene's 
left  leg;  then,  turning  upon  the  intruder:  "We 
have  business,  sir,  if  you  have  none.  Life  is  short, 
and  the  art  .  .  ." 

But  the  young  lawyer's  curiosity  was  stirred.  He 
strode  to  the  wall  and  replaced  his  foil  on  its  nail. 

"Nay,  worthy  janitor  of  the  Long  Art,"  he  inter- 
posed complacently  and  with  all  the  pedantic  air  of 
the  school,  "though  life  be  short,  I'll  no  more  to-day  ! 
My  hand  and  foot  in  concert,"  he  added,  mimick- 
ing Heronymo's  professional  gesture,  "crave  a 
release.  And  now  mine  eyes  would  fainer  seek  the 
mark  of  a  red  lattice,  and  count  the  hoops  of  a  fair 
ale-pottle,  than  the  buttons  on  the  paunch  of  my 
bitterest  enemy.  Give  us  leave,  good  Heronymo. 
So!" 

The  Provost  retired  in  dudgeon  and  busied  him- 
self over  some  broken  foils.  Meanwhile  the  pupil, 
mopping  and  dressing  himself,  rallied  the  new- 
comer, whose  countenance  displayed  unusual  pre- 
occupation :  — 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  159 

"How  now,  friend  Strange  and  strange  friend, 
what  make  you  in  the  school  of  the  'frog-pricking 
Italian,'  in  the  sanctum  of  the  'new-f angle  mere- 
tricious rapier '  ?    Have  you — " 

"Hush!"  interposed  the  other  earnestly.  "I 
have  strange  news  indeed !  Do  you  mind  the  fair 
face  we  saw,  the  star-like  eyes  that  shot  such  mis- 
chief to  my  cleft  heart?  Do  you  mind  her  of  the 
divine  throat,  who,  with  Hebe's  grace,  yet  Venus' 
own  loveliness  — " 

It  was  the  Templar's  turn  to  interrupt. 

"Ho!  ho!  Now,  now!"  he  exclaimed  with  a 
guffaw.  "The  pretty  wench  at  the  window  in  Gar- 
den Lane?  Why,  yes:  some  merchant's  Moll  or 
shipman's  Sue.  Ned,  Ned,  it  is  your  brain  that's 
cleft.  .  .  .  Yet  I  grant  you  she  was  a  comely  queen 
enough.  I  have  not  seen  her  since,  yet  do  I  mind 
her  well." 

Here  he  blew  a  kiss  from  his  fingers  with  a  flip- 
pant air. 

"  A  truce  to  jest,  Hal !  I  want  your  help.  Yes, 
in  sooth,  coz,  I  am  in  burning  earnest,"  whispered 
the  gallant,  drawing  his  friend  by  the  arm  and 
looking  darkly  over  his  shoulder  at  Heronymo. 
"Listen :  the  lady  is  of  this  house  !  Of  this  house ! 
I  have  seen  her  at  this  very  window." 


i6o  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

Greene  looked  askance;  then,  after  a  moment's 
reflection :  — 

"Fantasy,  pure  fantasy!"  he  asserted,  smiling 
indulgently.  ''Both  sun  and  moon  have  told  upon 
thy  pate,  Ned.  Art  indeed  stark;  and  thy  vision 
doubled  even  as  thy  poor  cleft  heart?  'Tis  well 
known  Saviolo  hath  no  womankind,  tolerates  none. 
He  is  wedded  to  his  white  rapier  —  aha  !  And,  by 
her,  father  to  half  a  score  of  admirable  offsprings. 
Well-christened  too,  as  thou  knowest,"  he  pursued, 
following  the  vein  of  far-stretched  conceits  which 
were  the  mode  of  those  years.  "There  is  the  fair 
Mandritta  Saviolo,  Stoccata  the  nimble,  and  Imbroc- 
cata  the  resolute,  and  Rinversa  the  sly;  also  Falso- 
manco,  and  the  sturdy  Passadosotto.  Ha,  ha !  — 
eh,  Heronymo?    Oh,  he  needs  no  other  family!" 

Strange  could  barely  contain  his  impatience. 

"I  tell  you  she  was  here,"  he  said  decisively,  and 
thereupon  fell  himself  into  a  prolixity  german  to  his 
own  temper.  "  'Twas  from  that  window  I  saw  her 
lean  out,  rare  in  her  beauty  as  the  virgin  moon  from 
the  skies,  fresh  as  a  rose  in  early  dew  —  no  later 
than  this  morning.  It  was  as  the  bell  of  Paul's  gave 
seven.  I  had  paced  the  lane  from  sunrise  watching 
the  casements  you  wot  of,  but  there  it  was,"  point- 
ing once  more  to  the  window,  "there,  from  the  for- 


My  Rapier  and  My  Daughter  i6i 

eign  swaggerer's  own  room,  my  life's  light  shone 
forth !  And,  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast,  I  know 
for  sure  she  sighed  as  she  gazed  into  the  blue.  And 
methought,  as  she  was  called  back  by  some  brutal 
voice,  she  looked  most  piteous  and  appealing  for 
help." 

The  young  men  had  approached  the  window  in 
question. 

"Here,"  resumed  Strange,  "rested  her  little  hand, 
white  as  first  snow-flake  on  grimy  earth.  Think  you 
still  I  saw  visions?"  And,  bending,  he  sentimen- 
tally kissed  the  sill.     Greene  laughed  outright. 

"Heigho  !  Poor  Strange  !  Nay,  then,  if  you  will 
not  believe  me,  satisfy  yourself  with  other  witness- 
ing," he  said,  and  then  called  over  his  shoulder: 
"Heronymo,  here!" 

The  Provost,  who,  at  his  mechanical  work  had 
kept  suspicious  eyes  upon  their  secret  consorting, 
rose  with  alacrity :  — 

"'Here'  is  for  a  dog,  sir,  but  let  it  pass!  Well, 
masters,  Heronymo  is  here." 

"Then  hear,  Heronymo,"  Greene  proceeded,  still 
with  his  best  modish  affectation  of  speech.  "What 
beauteous  damsel  is  it  that  haunts  these  male-sacred 
purlieus,  and  rests  her  snowy  arms  on  this  window- 
sill;    bends  a  face  lovely  as  virgin  moon,  blushing 

M 


1 62  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

as  the  dewy  rose  —  it  is  rightly  said  so,  eh,  friend 
Strange?  —  from  that  casement  of  a  morning?" 

At  the  very  first  words  the  Provost  had  suppressed 
a  start.  "  Plague  on  ye  for  prowling  cats ! "  had  been 
his  angry  thought,  as  with  stubborn  mien  he  scanned 
the  gallant's  inquiring  countenance.  But  in  spoken 
words  he  only  made  answer :  — 

"You  please  to  be  merry,  masters.  There  are 
no  women  here.  —  Womankind!"  he  asserted  again 
doggedly,  "my  noble  master  hath  none.  Will  that 
suffice?" 

"Hearest,  Ned?  Said  I  right?"  whispered 
Greene.  Then,  genially:  "And  thou,  Hero- 
nymo?" 

"I,  master?  Nay,  trouble  enough  without! 
None  here.  Not  a  patten,  not  a  farthingale.  We 
have  no  women  here,  nor  ever  shall.  And  so,  your 
leave,  sir." 

"Here  is  mystery,"  whispered  Strange  to  his 
friend.  Then  arresting  Heronymo  as  the  latter 
was  moving  away :  — 

"Who,  then,  was  it,  honest  man,"  he  called  with 
a  sneer,  "stood  at  that  window  —  that  window, 
mark  you,  in  your  noble  master's  house,  this  very 
morn,  at  the  stroke  of  seven?" 

The  Provost  stopped  short,  and  remained  a  mo- 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  163 

merit  silent.  "The  little  jade!"  he  was  thinking. 
Then  he  turned  round  with  well-assumed  looks  of 
wonder:  ''At  the  stroke  of  seven?"  he  repeated. 
"At  that  time  I  was  strewing  the  rushes.  None  but 
myself  was  here.  The  window  stood  open,  true : 
I  may  have  looked  forth.  In  faith  I  mind  me  now 
I  did." 

Once  more  did  Greene's  great  laugh  ring  under 
the  rafters.  He  seized  the  Provost  by  the  shoulders 
and  thrust  him  forward. 

"Here,  then,  haha  !  is  the  mystery  solved  !  Sweet 
coz,  behold  the  rosy  moon  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Feast  once 
more  thine  eyes  on  its  virgin  beauty !  Kiss  the 
snowflake  hand !" 

With  a  malediction  Heronymo  freed  himself  from 
the  irrepressible  Templar's  clutch. 

"I  have  no  time  for  jesting,  and  'tis  close  upon 
noon,  when  I  go  forth  for  my  meal.  The  school 
now  closes,  masters,  I  pray  you — " 

He  significantly  pointed  to  the  door.  The  twelve 
strokes  of  mid-day  were  beginning  to  throb  from 
Paul's  belfry  into  the  room.  Greene,  who  had 
finished  his  dressing,  now  began  to  hustle  his  friend. 

"Come,  Ned,  Heronymo  says  right,  and  'tis  noon." 

"I  tell  you,"  retorted  Strange,  scowling  suspi- 
ciously around,  "the  fellow  says  wrong.    Here  is 


164  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

mystery !  My  heart  cries  out  there  is  foul  wrong 
done  here;  here,  at  the  sign  of  the  Sword  Hand, 
that  I  must  and  shall  be  even  with." 

"And  I  tell  thee  here  is  hunger!  My  maw  cries 
out  there  is  a  fair  fowl  done  there  —  there,  at  the 
sign  of  the  Tankard,  that  I  must  and  shall  be  even 
with!" 

And,  laughing,  he  pushed  his  still  protesting 
friend  through  the  door.  Heronymo  listened  to 
their  voices,  dying  away  upon  the  stairs  to  ring  up- 
wards in  loudness  once  more  for  an  instant  as  they 
passed  down  the  street  below  the  window.  He 
remained  yet  awhile  musing  in  the  silence  which 
had  returned  to  the  fencing  room;  then  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  he  sallied  forth  in  his  turn. 

n 

Half-an-hour  after  the  meridian  Master  Vincent 
had  just  concluded  a  brief  but  gratifying  interview 
with  my  Lord  of  Essex,  and  was  embarking  at  the 
Temple  stairs.  The  noble  patron  had  graciously 
insisted  upon  his  own  galley  taking  back  the  signor 
to  Blackfriars.  The  tide  still  flowing,  the  return 
journey  was  slow;  but  Master  Vincent  was  full  of 
engrossing  thoughts,  and  the  tardy  progress  of  his 
lordship's  oarsmen  caused  him  no  impatience. 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  165 

He  had  received  the  praise  of  the  gallant  Essex, 
a  good  judge  if  there  was  one  in  the  land,  on  the 
new-blossomed  work.  He  had  even  been  assured 
that  the  Queen  herself,  who  ever  commended  pur- 
suits of  manliness  and  chivalry,  would  have  occa- 
sion to  cast  her  royal  glance  upon  the  learned  pages. 
In  short,  he  was  riding  the  high  tide  of  life.  Wealth 
he  was  rapidly  achieving,  and  repute  second  to  none ; 
and  now  honours  appeared  on  his  horizon.  It  was 
a  great  day.  Yet  there  was  a  cloud  or  two  in  the 
purity  of  his  sky,  the  shadow  of  which  tinged  with 
vague  trouble  the  fair  colour  of  his  meditation. 

Men,  Saviolo  could  always  manage,  whether  in 
counsel,  fight,  or  argument.  But  he  had  a  daughter 
—  his  own  daughter,  in  sooth,  for  southern,  pas- 
sionate strength  of  blood,  albeit  she  had  taken  from 
her  dead  English  mother  her  fairness  of  looks  and 
her  blue  eyes.  On  Francesca,  a  chit  of  eighteen, 
the  stern  man  centred  a  whole-souled  love,  dis- 
guised under  a  transparent  garb  of  severity.  The 
child  had  been  brought  up  by  friends  in  the  sweet- 
ness of  Kentish  orchards  —  and  the  father's  flying 
visits  thereto  had  been  the  landmarks  of  joy  in  his 
life. 

Of  late,  however  (knowing  that  the  threshold  of 
womanhood  is  fraught  with  untold  dangers)  he  had, 


i66  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

in  his  solicitude,  thought  it  safer  to  have  his  one 
priceless  treasure  more  immediately  under  his  eye. 
And  from  that  moment  all  true  peace  of  mind  had 
departed. 

Following  his  Italian  notions,  which  some  twenty 
years  of  English  life  had  not  eradicated,  he  had 
cloistered  the  fresh  country  girl  in  a  retired  house, 
next  to  his  school,  in  Garden  Lane.  To  the  father 
of  a  too  handsome  daughter  the  spring-gallants  of  a 
rapier-school  were  even  as  ravenous  wolves  unto  the 
shepherd.  Strict  therefore  were  his  precautions  con- 
cerning secrecy.  That  the  news  should  ever  go 
round  —  "Master  Vincent  hath  a  fair  daughter!" 
—  would  have  been  disaster  indeed. 

Master  Vincent,  however,  had  (as  he  compla- 
cently believed)  solved  the  problem.  An  inner  door, 
secretly  contrived  between  the  topmost  rooms  of  the 
houses,  enabled  the  father  to  consort  freely  with  his 
child  without  being  seen  to  cross  her  house-door; 
none  were  in  the  confidence  but  Heronymo  and  an 
old  nurse,  the  duenna.  And  thus  Saviolo  had  flat- 
tered himself  the  pretty  mystery  could  be  preserved 
till  the  maturity  of  time  ! 

Of  the  girl's  faithfulness  to  her  promise  never  to 
let  herself  be  seen,  or  even  to  enter  the  precincts  of 
the  fencing-school,  he  entertained  no  doubt.     Yet 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  167 

Saviolo  was  anxious.  The  life  that  hides  a  secret 
ever  carries  a  burden.  Since  Francesca's  coming 
to  London  he  had  ever  been  haunted  by  dire  possi- 
bilities, fretted  by  apprehension.  And  the  child ! 
She  had  wept  that  morning  to  go  on  a  fair  free  barge, 
like  other  maids,  and  had  flung  her  mask  upon  the 
floor  in  bitter,  pettish  fit  that  had  pierced  the  father's 
heart  as  never  blade  was  ever  forged  to  do.  In  short, 
he  was  beginning  to  foresee,  with  fresh  sorrow,  a 
fresh  parting,  yet  without  finding  the  courage  to 
resolve  on  it. 

Another  thought  (all  Saviolo 's  thoughts  that  were 
not  of  his  daughter  were  of  his  rapier),  one  of  lesser 
import,  yet  vexing  as  trifles  are  apt  to  be,  came  ever 
and  anon  further  to  disturb  his  self-satisfaction  — 
that  young  Strange ! 

It  was  but  a  few  days  before  that  Master  Vincent, 
with  the  appreciation  of  the  true  adept,  had  watched 
him  play  his  "Master's  prize  against  all  comers"  in 
the  great  halls  of  Baynard's  Castle,  under  my  Lord 
Pembroke's  own  patronage.  What  a  swordsman 
so  mettled  a  lad  could  become,  were  he  but  properly 
taught !  .  .  ,  Nay,  Saviolo's  triumph  would  never 
be  complete  until  he  reckoned  this  fencer  of  match- 
less promise  among  his  own  scholars. 

Yet,  with  what  unwarrantable  scorn  had  the  lad 


1 68  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

received  his  courteous  invitation  to  visit  the  School 
at  the  sign  of  the  Sword  Hand,  and  there  acquire, 
in  addition  to  native  gifts,  the  higher  sword-skill  of 
Italy !  As  he  recalled  the  haughty  rebuff,  Master 
Vincent  tasted  again  all  the  savour  of  angry  resent- 
ment in  his  mouth;  and  the  shadow  of  Baynard's 
Castle  seemed,  in  his  meditations,  to  eclipse  the 
brightness  of  Essex  House  itself. 

Little  did  he  think  when,  landing  at  Blackfriars 
stairs,  he  began  pensively  to  ascend  homewards, 
weaving  these  alternately  grey  or  scarlet  thoughts 
of  rapier  and  daughter,  that  the  two  vexing  problems 
of  the  hour,  so  little  connected  thus  far,  were  to  be 
solved  that  very  midsummer  day,  and  with  unex- 
pected quaintness. 

Like  the  forbidden  fruit,  the  forbidden  door  will 
ever  be  an  irresistible  temptation.  All  promises 
notwithstanding,  who  could  in  his  heart  condemn  a 
too  solitary  daughter  of  Eve  —  almost  a  child  —  for 
yielding  ? 

During  the  few  weeks  that  had  elapsed  since  Fran- 
cesca  had  been  brought  to  London,  the  tension  of 
repressed  curiosity  in  the  midst  of  idleness  had  be- 
come well-nigh  intolerable.  On  this  fateful  morn- 
ing, Saviolo  having  in  unwonted  abstraction  left  the 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  169 

secret  door  open  when  he  had  salhed  forth  early  to 
receive  the  promised  precious  book  from  the  printers, 
the  fever  of  forbidden  ventures  had  proved  overpow- 
ering. True,  the  venture  itself  had  been  brought 
to  premature  conclusion  by  Heronymo  —  stern  re- 
specter of  orders;  but  the  short  glimpse  Francesca 
had  had  of  the  strange,  to  her  quite  fantastic,  sword- 
room,  of  the  ruffling  young  courtiers'  playing  ground, 
whence  arose  such  extraordinary  harmonies  of  manly 
sounds,  had  but  served  to  whet  her  interest  to  sharp- 
est edge. 

As  soon  as  silence  once  more  reigned  in  the  house, 
the  emboldened  maid,  profiting  of  the  duenna's 
slumber  during  the  noonday  heat,  crept  once  more 
down  the  inner  stairs;  and,  like  peeping  mouse, 
looked  into  the  room.  Then,  defiantly,  she  stepped 
in. 

Well  might  Master  Vincent  think  it  wise  to  keep 
this  alert,  merry-eyed,  red-lipped  girl,  rich  already 
in  fair  womanly  lines  and  richer  in  promise,  away 
from  the  inquiring  gaze  of  those  ruffling  gallants, 
his  scholars ! 

She  paused  a  moment  and  bent  a  pretty  ear  to 
hearken.  Then,  reassured,  with  almost  childish 
glee,  she  began  to  inspect  every  detail,  peer  into 
every  corner;    read  the  name  of  each  scholar  and 


lyo  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

scan  the  coat-of-arms  over  each  set  of  rapier  and 
dagger  foils,  wondering  if  one  of  these  might  not 
well  belong  to  the  comely  youth  who  this  morning 
had  doffed  his  cap  with  such  a  look  of  startled  won- 
der as  she  had  met  his  glance  through  this  very 
window.  If  she  dared  look  out  again  !  But  no,  her 
father  might  upon  any  moment  be  passing  through 
the  street.  .  .  .  Stay !  The  Garden  Lane  case- 
ment was  safe.  Her  father  never  walked  that  way ; 
and  he,  he  of  the  cornfield-coloured  hair,  of  the 
beseeching  eyes,  so  often  did  !  She  moved  on  tiptoe, 
and  peered  out. 

Yes  —  oh,  dear  mother  of  the  loves  —  yes ! 
There  was  the  gallant  youth  again !  But,  with 
hands  resting  against  the  wall,  what  was  he  doing? 
.  .  .  Writing  on  tablets,  and  ever  and  anon  cast- 
ing a  glance  upwards  at  the  little,  high,  barred 
window  of  the  neighbouring  house  .  .  .  her  window  ! 
In  the  hilt  of  his  sword  is  thrust  a  knot  of  dark  red 
roses.  ...  O,  the  spite  of  Fate,  will  he  never  look 
this  way !  The  golden  minutes  are  fleeting,  gentle 
sir  ... ! 

Francesca's  bosom  heaved  with  her  quickening 
breath.  Suddenly,  almost  as  instinctively  as  a 
caged  bird  will  sing  at  sight  of  a  free  mate,  in  clear 
young  voice  she  began  the  verse  of  a  song  known  to 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  171 

every  maid  that  year  —  little  wotting  that  below 
there  stood  the  very  author  of  the  sweet  words, 
Edward  Strange  the  poet:  — 

There  is  a  lady  sweet  and  kind  — 
Was  never  face  so  pleased  my  mind  I 
I  did  but  see  her  passing  by, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die/ 

At  the  first  note  the  watcher  started,  turned ;  and, 
with  flashing  eyes,  recognised  the  singer.  Without 
a  moment's  hesitation  he  himself  took  up  the  second 
verse :  — 

Her  gesture,  motion,  and  her  smiles, 
Her  look,  her  voice,  my  heart  beguiles/ 
Beguiles  my  heart,  I  know  not  why  — 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die/ 

And  while  he  sang  his  gaze  never  removed  its 
earnestness  from  her  face.  The  lad's  manly  tones, 
deep  and  true,  were  troubling  delight  to  the  maid: 
she  threw  her  heart  at  him.  In  such  guise  do  un- 
known lovers  meet  in  dreams,  and  forthwith  talk  of 
love  as  of  a  thing  long  avowed. 

"No,  no,  kind  sir,"  Francesca  was  answering. 
"  'Twas  no  angel  sang,  but  a  poor  caged  bird.  And 
one,  indeed,  much  affrighted."  (In  sooth  stolen 
interviews    are    fraught    with    terrors.)     "Oh,    my 


172  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

lord,  go  !  'tis  veriest  madness  !  Yes,  yes,  I  will  take 
your  flowers,  but  haste.  .  .  ," 

Short  as  was  Edward  Strange's  sword,  its  point, 
now  stabbing  the  bunch  of  June  roses,  could  reach 
as  high  as  her  outstretched  hand.  She  snatched  at 
the  posy,  then  fearfully  drew  within.  A  small 
folded  sheet  lay  between  the  flowers.  It  was  tied 
with  a  silken  point  torn  from  the  writer's  doublet. 

Francesca  dropped  the  roses  on  the  table,  and, 
quivering,  opened  the  note.  "Why,  'tis  writ  in 
verse!"  she  almost  cried  aloud;  and  as  she  read 
her  bright  eyes  became  brighter  with  the  joy  of  it. 

Ran  the  epistle  :  — 

Most  noble  lady, 

and  most  beauteous  goddess 
Who,  rapt  in  veil  of  envious  mystery. 
Like  to  a  star  upon  a  night  of  storm.  .  .  . 

"Ah!  me,"  sighed  she,  "how  beautiful!  .  .  . 
upon  a  night  of  storm!" 

Hast  flashed  athwart  the  restless  circumstance 
And  lightless  blank  of  my  uncoupled  life, 
Thy  beams  divine,  leave  me  not  lost,  I  pray, 
Not  lost  in  nether  darkness  of  despair. 

She  hazarded  another  look  out  of  the  window: 
the   sunny-headed   poet  was  still  there,   anxiously 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  173 

watchful.     She  smiled  tenderly :  "Alas  !  poor  youth, 
who  could  be  hard  with  you  !  —  darkness  of  despair  J^ 

Let  at  thy  feet  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves 

His  homage  lay.     O  grant  me,  sovereign  maid, 

One  moment's  speech  with  thee,  one  moment's  grace, 

Lest,  by  the  sharpness  of  my  longing  slain, 

'Neath  thy  unopening  window  I  expire  ! 

I  fain  would  live  that  I  might  fight  for  thee, 

Or  if  I  die,  would  die  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

(No,  no,  sweet  gentleman ! ) 

To  be  so  lovely,  and  to  be  unkind, 

Were,  with  fair  flow' rs  and  living  springs,  to  kill. 
Nature  is  not  of  such  uncertain  mind. 

And  her  sweets  culled,  do  greater  sweets  distil. 
Thus  if  I  sin  in  sending  thee  love's  token, 

By  thy  fair  lips  be  absolution  spoken. 
And  if  by  thee,  this  loving  fault  be  shriven, 

So  shall  the  unrepentant  enter  heaven  ! 

As  she  came  to  the  end,  reading  ever  more  slowly, 
eyes  dim  with  sweet  emotion,  a  distant  sound  of  gay 
voices,  a  clanking  of  steel,  awoke  her  to  a  fresh  sense 
of  her  position.  Time  was  fleeting  —  the  school 
might  be  invaded  at  any  moment !  Her  eyes  fell 
on  the  standish  and  the  array  of  quills  and  gilt  papers. 
She  tore  off  half  a  sheet,  and  bending  her  fair  bosom 
over  the  table,  wrote  trembling,  yet  —  such  wings 
does  new  awakened  love  lend  a  maid's  imagination 
—  glibly  enough :  — 


174  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

Your  words  are  sweet  and  glowing  as  the  flowers  that 
brought  them.  I  cannot  say  thee  nay !  Yes,  Francesca 
will  admit  you  to  her  presence  whoever  you  be,  for  her 
heart  tells  her  a  true  heart  speaks  in  you.  She  is  a 
prisoner ;  but  watch,  watch  —  if  this  posy  falls  from  the 
window  of  the  school  then  know  that  ye  shall  find  her 
within.  Yet,  beware !  Oh !  beware,  how  you  venture, 
for  should  the  dread  Saviolo  aught  of  this  discover  all 
would,  in  very  truth,  be  undone !  So  be  prudent  if 
indeed  you  love  the  poor  caged  bird ;  her  gaolers  watch 
her  keenly. 

The  clank  and  mirth  was  gathering  closer  outside. 
A  knock  at  the  street  door  made  Francesca  start. 
She  ran  to  the  Lane  window,  hesitated,  flung  forth 
the  note,  kissed  her  hand ;  and  bounding  like  a  deer, 
reached  the  inner  door  and  disappeared  just  as  Mas- 
ter Vincent  entered,  followed  by  Heronymo  and 
three  or  four  eager  young  men  who  had  been  await- 
ing the  lesson  hour. 

He  stood  a  second  on  the  threshold  looking  at  the 
closing  door  through  which  he  had  just  seen  the  last 
flutter  of  a  gay  coloured  skirt.  Saviolo's  counte- 
nance was  forbidding.  As  he  had,  just  now,  passed 
before  the  entrance  of  the  Lane,  he  had  noted  in 
that  usually  deserted  spot  a  young  man's  figure 
posted  in  an  attitude  of  observation  under  the 
school's  window.  And  nothing  but  the  greeting  of 
his  pupils,  whom  he  accidentally  met  at  that  very 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  175 

moment,  could  have  prevented  his  instant  interpel- 
lation of  the  suspicious  stranger.  Thus,  even  before 
he  had  entered  the  house,  was  suspicion  all  aflame. 
There  his  first  glance  had  detected  his  daughter's 
disobedience.  And  now,  on  the  table,  a  glow  of 
gorgeous  rose-leaves  loudly  claimed  the  eye. 

Without  a  word  he  strode  forward,  took  note  of 
the  torn  leaf  of  paper  and  the  still  wet  quill;  and 
for  a  moment,  turning  over  one  of  Francesca's  for- 
gotten flowers  with  the  tip  of  his  fingers,  remained 
musing. 

"Heronymo,"  asked  Master  Vincent  in  a  low  voice, 
"which  of  our  gentle  scholars  wrote  here  lately?" 

"None  wrote  whilst  I  was  here.  Master,  and  I  was 
here  last." 

Saviolo  moved  to  the  window,  cast  one  swift  glance 
out  —  the  mysterious  watcher  was  still  there  —  then 
came  back  into  the  room.  Saviolo's  wits  were  as 
prompt  to  resolution  as  his  dagger  and  his  rapier  to 
parry  and  to  thrust. 

He  turned  to  his  expectant  pupils.  In  choice 
words  of  civility  he  craved  their  pardon :  "  Only 
matters  of  gravest  import,"  he  assured  them,  "could 
make  him  wish  to  remain  alone  in  his  house  this  day. 
Of  their  kindness  and  courtesy  he  implored  their 
Immediate  departure." 


176  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

"And  thou,  Heronymo,"  he  added,  when,  with 
salutations,  the  last  of  the  wondering  disciples  had 
taken  his  leave,  "must  this  day  in  my  stead  attend 
Master  Shakespeare  who  awaits  me  at  the  theatre. 
Haste  !    I  bide  here." 

And  now  he  waited. 

Not  for  long.  Into  the  stillness  of  the  room 
there  came  a  little  patter  of  approaching  feet;  a 
pause,  the  creaking  of  the  door  and  then  the  pretty 
patter  entered  the  room  itself.  Concealed  behind  the 
practising  pillar,  motionless,  the  father  saw  his 
Francesca  flutter  up  to  the  table  like  a  bird,  and,  with 
a  small,  bird-like  cry,  catch  the  roses  to  her  breast. 

As  she  turned  she  met  full  his  grave  though  not 
unkind  gaze  and  stood  paralysed  with  the  terror 
of  the  detected. 

"Daughter,"  he  asked  gently,  "what  dost  thou 
here?" 

Francesca  hung  her  head,  hid  the  flowers  behind 
her  and  stammered :  — 

"Father  ...  I  know  you  did  forbid  me  to  come 
here  .  .  .  but  so,  you  see,  father  .  .  .  why,  thus 
...  I  am  ever  your  dutiful  daughter,  —  yet  I 
came  .  .  ." 

"Faith!"  he  answered  indulgently  enough,  as 
strong  men  will  do  when  rebuking  a  child,  "a  most 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  177 

excellent  argument  and  of  most  convincing  clear- 
ness —  but  well?" 

"Look  you,  father,  the  day  is  passing  hot  .  .  . 
and  your  great,  long  room  here  strikes  pleasant,  cool, 
and  fresh." 

"True,"  admitted  the  father.  "I  grudge  thee 
not  the  cooler  air,  God  knows.  But  there's  danger 
here  thou  knowest  nothing  of  —  poor  motherless 
one,  I  have  to  take  a  mother's  place  by  thee!" 
And,  with  sudden  tenderness,  he  took  the  girl's  face 
between  his  hands.  "  Canst  thou  not  have  patience, 
my  Francesca  ?  Saviolo  works  for  thee  :  each  stroke 
of  his  white  rapier  rings  out  red  gold  for  his  daugh- 
ter's dowry.  The  day  is  not  so  far  when  his  jewel 
will  be  brought  fair  to  the  light,  to  shine  in  its  proper 
setting.  Thy  father  shall  then  find  fit  mate  for  thee. 
Come,  kiss  me,  sweet !  Confess  what  dost  thou 
here?" 

The  maid  flung  her  arms  round  her  father's  neck 
and  rested  her  head  on  his  bosom. 

"Thy  roses  have  a  sweet  smell,  daughter,"  said 
he  gravely,  after  a  pause,  "whence  came  they?" 

Francesca  disengaged  herself.  "Indeed,  father, 
I  know  not,  I  .  .  ."  she  faltered. 

"What  riddle  is  this?"  Cold  disappointment 
was  now  in  his  voice ;  severity  in  his  eye. 

N  f 


178  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

"The  roses?  —  I  found  them  here  —  I  mean  — " 
"Found  them  here  !  Blooming,  no  doubt,  among 
these  steel  blades,  planted  in  the  fields  of  yonder 
escutcheons!"  exclaimed  Saviolo,  with  hard  voice  of 
sarcasm.  "Why,  girl, these  tags  do  whip  thee  untrue 
to  thy  face!"  he  pursued,  taking  the  flowers  from 
her  hand  and  angrily  shaking  the  silken  points.  "I 
would  have  forgiven  all  but  deceit !  Go,  go,  back 
to  thy  room,  Francesca !  I  would  not  speak  with 
thee,  now  that  chokr  is  my  master.  Anon  !  Go !" 
There  was  no  appeal  against  the  stern  gesture. 
Francesca  fled,  weeping. 

m 

Master  Vincent  paced  the  room  once  or  twice, 
in  sore  perturbation;  then  suddenly  flung  the  posy 
from  his  hand  as  if  it  had  stung  him.  The  gentle 
guerdon  flew  through  the  open  casement.  From 
the  quiet  lane  below  rose  a  half  suppressed  cry. 

Saviolo  sprang  to  the  window;  the  alley  was  de- 
serted from  end  to  end.  Cursing  his  own  dilatori- 
ness,  he  stood  a  moment  irresolute.  Now,  the  door 
of  the  school  was  flung  open;  and  in  dashed  the 
gallant  figure  of  the  very  youth  he  had  looked  for, 
clasping  against  his  purple  doublet  the  self-same 
knot  of  crimson  roses. 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  179 

Edward  Strange  stopped  dead  short,  as  if  the 
fierce  smile  with  which  Saviolo  received  him  had 
been  the  point  of  a  sword  at  his  face. 

But,  the  next  instant,  the  Master's  countenance 
changed  and  was  twitched  as  though  by  a  spasm  of 
pain.  His  eyes  upon  the  roses,  he  was  hearkening 
to  a  bitter  inward  cry:  "What!  Signals  and  assig- 
nations !  Shame,  my  Francesca,  thou  that  hast  thy 
mother's  eyes !  .  .  .  Oh,  my  white  bird,  could'st 
wing  so  low  a  flight?" 

Then  he  spoke :  — 

"  By  Saint  Paul,  why  'tis  even  Master  Strange ! 
How,  now,  gentle  sir,  are  you  come  at  last  to  seek  a 
lesson  from  the  juggling  foreigner?  Body  o'  me! 
'Tis  like  to-day  to  take  the  form  of  seasoned  wood. 
Hand  down,  young  man!"  he  ordered,  raising  his 
threatening  voice  yet  one  tone,  as  Strange  instinc- 
tively laid  his  hand  on  his  hilt,  "for  I  will  speak  with 
thee,  and  thou  shalt  answer  first." 

The  bewildered  youth  had  involuntarily  stepped 
back  one  pace.  Now,  furiously  clenching  his  fists, 
he  came  up  close :  — 

"'Fore  God,  you  are  right,"  he  retorted.  "You 
have  to  speak  and  even  hear  me  speak !  What  I 
came  here  to  seek,  that  know  you  well.  We  are 
somehow  betrayed,  and  you  have  lured  me  with  my 


i8o  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

lady's  own  dear  signal.  Ay,  Master  Vincentio,  I 
know,  all  the  world  knows,  you  have  no  wife,  nor 
child,  nor  sister.  But  you  have  a  prisoner  you've 
hid  well  —  ah,  have  I  hit  thee,  Master  ?  But  there 
is  a  God  for  the  helpless.  Be  I,  this  day,  His  instru- 
ment and,  strong  in  my  righteous  cause,  rescue  the 
wronged !" 

As  Saviolo  listened  to  these  hot  words  of  youthful 
chivalry,  his  face  relaxed,  grew  wondering ;  its  anger 
faded.  It  was  with  almost  a  friendly  smile  that  he 
answered :  — 

"Thou  rollest  forth  some  very  mighty  sounds,  lad ; 
yet,  to  my  dullard  ear,  but  little  sense.  Pray  tell  me, 
in  plain  words  if  you  can,  where  you  gleaned  ma- 
terials for  this  piteous  tale;  for,  in  my  hearing,  it 
runs  as  the  very  babble  of  madness?" 

"Signor  Saviolo,"  said  the  young  man,  between 
his  set  teeth,  "I  know  your  secret." 

"A  very  midsummer  madness!"  replied  Saviolo 
in  pleasant  mockery.  "What  now,  my  Amadis  of 
Gaul,  go  right  thee  wrongs  elsewhere;  for,  believe 
it,  there  is  no  call  here  for  thy  derring-do." 

"Now  do  I  brand  thee  liar!"  hissed  the  cham- 
pion, crossing  fierce  glances  with  his  enemy  as  he 
would  have  crossed  murderous  blades.  "For 
'twas  but  at  noon  this  day  I  had  speech  of  her;   I 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  i8i 

cast  roses  up  to  her  and  craved  a  meeting.  And  this 
she  promised,  so  she  could  but  evade  her  gaolers  — 
another  hit,  Signor?" 

"Enough!"  cried  Master  Vincent,  drawing  black 
brows  together.  "And  who  art  thou,  that  would 
dare  come  between  Saviolo  and  whomsoever  it  pleases 
Saviolo  to  keep  from  the  world  !  Go !  I  give  thee 
thy  life.  Fly,  sirrah,  but  forget  thou  hast  ever  seen 
Saviolo's  prisoner!" 

"Not  so,  by  my  father's  sword!"  And  the 
youth,  stepping  back,  bared  his  broad  blade.  "We 
are  alone  before  God.  I  challenge  you  to  combat 
before  God.  And,  as  God  rules  all,  so  rule  He  now 
the  fight !  Could  I  desert  her  field  without  striking 
a  blow,  then  were  indeed  life  wasted  on  me !" 

"The  cockerel  croweth  loud  —  but  croweth  to 
good  purpose,"  muttered  Master  Vincent  to  himself, 
ever  more  pleased,  in  spite  of  all,  with  the  lover's 
chivalrous  bearing.  "But,  pray  you,  valiant  sir," 
said  he  aloud,  "before  you  smite  me  with  your 
mighty  weapon,  answer  me  first  one  question:  To 
what  higher  estate  would  you  raise  this  same  poor 
captive  lady  .  .  .  when  you  have  conquered  me, 
and  thus  delivered  her?" 

"Ah,  it  wanted  but  this,"  exclaimed  Strange,  "to 
fill  the  measure  of  my  righteous  hate !     Oh,  man, 


i82  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

whatever  guilt  toward  her  may  lie  upon  your  soul, 
to  me  she  will  ever  be  all  stainless.  Have  I  not  seen 
her  face  ?  Gentle  maid,  what  would  I  make  of  thee  ? 
My  lady,  my  loved  wife  !" 

Saviolo  was  fain  to  turn  half  aside  to  hide  an 
irrepressible  smile.  "I'll  swear,"  was  the  thought 
singing  joyously  in  his  heart,  "I've  not  met  a  truer 
knight  in  all  honourable  England,  nor  a  more  valour- 
ous.  Ay,  he  who  would  beard  Saviolo  himself  in 
his  den,  and  face  his  rapier  for  a  woman's  sake,  is 
almost  worthy  of  Saviolo 's  daughter.  .  .  .  Sweet 
poet  and  sturdy  fighter  ...  he  belieth  not  his 
fame!" 

"A  noble  flow  of  words,  indeed,"  he  said,  aloud, 
and  feigning  coldness.  "Art  a  most  brave  youth 
...  in  words!" 

"No  more!"  cried  Strange,  making  the  air  hiss 
with  his  menacing  blade.  "  Draw,  sir,  or  even  now 
I  strike!" 

Saviolo,  pleased  to  his  fill,  stepped  to  the  table, 
took  up  his  rapier,  and  released  it  with  leisurely  grace. 
Then,  balancing  his  dagger  in  his  left  hand,  he  fell 
on  guard  and  smilingly  received  the  reckless  on- 
slaught. 

But,  although  he  smiled,  never  in  his  life  had  he 
fenced  with  more  intent  watchfulness  or  more  closely 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  183 

brought  his  experience  to  bear  upon  his  science. 
His  slender  double-edged  blade  was,  towards  the 
point,  keen  as  a  surgeon's  knife :  let  but  one  un- 
lucky stroke  meet  the  lad  on  his  headlong  attacks 
and  it  might  even  cut  the  thread  of  Francesca's 
coming  happiness.  Ay,  he  would  spare  this  gal- 
lant's blood  —  ay,  even  for  its  own  sake.  Yet  it 
was  imperative  (so  Saviolo  thought)  that  this  suitor 
should  find  out  the  worth  of  Saviolo's  rapier,  even 
as  he  had  discovered  that  of  Saviolo's  daughter. 

"Methinks,"  said  the  peerless  swordsman,  "I 
mind  me  now  thou  hast  a  very  homely  scorn  for  the 
new-fangle  rapier  and  its  apish  tricks.  Despite  all, 
shalt  take  lesson  of  Saviolo."  Here  with  his  dagger 
he  parried  a  furious  lunge;  then,  with  equal  ease, 
took  a  murderous  cut  upon  his  hilt.  "Now,  about 
those  silken  points  of  thine  —  it  offends  mine  eye 
to  see  thee  partly  shorn.  'Twere  neater  to  have 
none,  or  so  it  seems  to  me." 

And,  nimbly  traversing  right  and  left  in  front 
of  his  opponent,  with  the  extreme  edge  of  his  blade 
he  severed  in  quick  succession  the  remaining  points 
on  the  disordered  doublet. 

"These  twain  upon  thy  sleeve,"  he  went  on, 
bantering,  "they  have  a  lonely  look!" 

Now  he  evaded  another  stroke  by  the  most  un- 


184  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

expected  incartade  which  placed  him  on  his  adver- 
sary's flank;  and,  upon  the  instant,  sliced  off  yet 
another  ribbon. 

By  this  time  Strange  was  beside  himself  with  rage. 
The  skill  which  could  have  traversed  his  body  a 
score  of  times  or  more,  which  could  have  slashed 
his  face  and  hands,  was  yet  nothing  to  the  skill  which 
thus  spared,  yet  left  its  scornful  mark  at  every  stroke 
and  in  touches  as  delicate  as  a  lady's  scissors. 
Better  to  lie  weltering  in  blood  than  to  be  played 
with  thus,  defeated  and  yet  protected ! 

"Draw  blood,  Saviolo !  .  .  .  Wound,  kill!"  he 
panted,  "but  leave  these  devil's  pranks!" 

Upon  this  cry  he  bounded  like  a  panther  —  and 
would  instantly  have  been  impaled  upon  the  despised 
foreign  steel  had  not  the  master  mercifully  raised 
his  point  and  contented  himself  with  receiving  on 
the  joint  blades  of  crossed  rapier  and  dagger  the  cut 
that  was  meant  to  cleave  him  to  the  chine. 

Then,  in  a  trice,  followed  one  of  Saviolo's  most 
precious  "inclosings,"  the  secret  of  which  was  im- 
parted only  in  the  inner  sanctum  and  belonged  not 
to  the  practice-room.  Rapier  and  dagger  were 
dropped,  clattering,  on  the  floor;  but,  in  the  same 
second,  the  youth  found  himself  disarmed  and  help- 
less, his  own  weapon,  he  knew  not  how,  in  his  ad- 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  185 

versary's  hand  and  its  edge  resting,  thin  and  cold, 
on  his  own  throat. 

But,  far  from  carrying  the  lesson  to  its  grim  con- 
clusion, Master  Vincent  gave  the  young  man  a  good- 
natured  push  which  sent  him  reeling  back;  then 
stood  smiling  (not  without  a  little  malicious  com- 
placency) upon  the  unwilling  pupil,  who,  breathless, 
tore  at  his  breast  in  futile  despair. 

"Thus  it  is  done  !"  said  Saviolo's  voice. 

There  came  an  echoing  cry  behind :  — 

"  'Tis  done !  My  father's  slain  him,  and  my  soul 
bears  the  guilt."  And  Francesca  was  upon  them 
like  a  whirlwind. 

Saviolo,  passing  the  conquered  sword  to  his  left 
hand,  caught  her  up  in  his  arms. 

"Look,  silly  bird,"  he  said. 

She  looked  and  saw  her  lover  standing  before 
her,  all-ashamed  of  tattered  garments  and  a  whole 
skin.  And  in  the  revulsion  of  feeling,  between 
laughing  and  sobbing,  she  hid  her  head  and  cried 
again :  — 

"Oh,  father,  father!" 

Then  did  Edward  Strange  awake  from  his  fan- 
tastic dream. 

"Father!"  he  echoed,  struck  his  forehead,  stared 
aghast  at   his  whilom  enemy,  who  now  over  the 


i86  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

girl's  fair  head  was  contemplating  him  with  grave 
eyes.  "Oh!  blind  fool!"  he  went  on,  thinking 
aloud,  "this,  then,  is  the  mystery.  No  wrong,  but 
a  most  simple  tale."  His  wandering  hand  met  his 
empty  scabbard.  "  To  draw  upon  her  father !  Ah, 
now  may  I  give  up  all  hope  indeed !  Alas,  Signor 
Vincentio,  how  have  I  borne  myself  with  you !" 

"In  truth,  mighty  ill  with  thy  weapon,"  answered 
the  Italian  with  a  small  dry  smile;  "but  with  thy 
heart,  Edward  Strange,  as  well  as  ever  I  could  wish 
to  see  a  —  son  of  mine." 

"Sir?"  murmured  the  boy,  hardly  daring  to  catch 
at  the  hope  the  words  held  out. 

Francesca  raised  her  face  to  shoot  a  quick  look  at 
her  father,  and  then  hid  it  again.  Her  sobs  were 
suddenly  stilled. 

"Look  up,  pretty  one,"  said  Saviolo,  and  Strange 
marvelled  to  hear  the  stern  man's  voice  take  so 
gentle  an  inflexion.  "Look  again  —  thou  art  a  fas- 
tidious wench:  could 'st  ever  give  thy  favour  to  so 
dilapidated  a  swain?" 

And  Strange  felt  all  the  blood  in  his  body  rush 
to  his  cheek  under  the  roguish  glance  which  now  was 
shot  at  him  from  the  shelter  of  the  rapier-man's  arms. 
But,  if  Francesca  made  no  reply  in  speech,  the  pres- 
sure of  her  clinging  hands  conveyed  her  clear  meaning. 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  187 

Master  Vincent  shook  with  genial  laughter,  and 
his  face  became  ever  more  benign. 

"And  you,  young  master,  are  you  of  a  mind  that 
Saviolo's  beloved  daughter  could  be  as  much  to  you 
as  Saviolo's  suffering  prisoner  ?  Then  here's  a  hand 
would  mend  more  tattered  fortunes  still." 

He  disengaged  the  tender  fingers  as  he  spoke,  then 
held  them  out  lying  on  his  own  strong  black  palm. 

Strange  sprang  forward.  But  before  he  could 
touch  the  lovely  prize  Saviolo  had  drawn  it  from 
him,  and,  folding  his  daughter  closer  than  before, 
looked  at  him  grave  again,  if  not  a  little  severe  :  — 

"He  who  would  rob  me  of  my  daughter  must  first 
learn  to  guard  her.  How  would  she  have  fared  to- 
day if— " 

He  did  not  finish  the  phrase,  but  held  out  the 
captured  sword  and  delivered  it  into  Strange 's  ad- 
vanced hand.  This  was  done  with  a  grace  con- 
scious of  conferring  favour.  And,  indeed,  it  was  to 
the  youth  as  if  he  thus  received  his  honour  back. 

"In  truth,  sir,"  said  he,  colouring  deep,  yet  look- 
ing back  into  Saviolo's  eyes  with  brave  glance, 
"you  have  already  taught  me  more  than  one  lesson 
to-day.  Yet,  I  think,  Signor  Vincentio,  I  could 
learn  further  still,  would  you  but  receive  so  feeble  a 
scholar." 


1 88  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

A  smile  of  gratification  came  again  on  the  swords- 
man's face :  at  last  was  the  one  homage  he  lacked 
laid  to  the  worth  of  his  school ! 

"So  then,  it  is  a  bargain,"  said  he,  at  last,  briskly. 
"I  have  misused  you  much  to-day,  my  gentle 
scholar.  But  your  mettle  likes  me,  and  you  need 
not  despair.  What  say  you,  Francesca?  The  day 
thy  unskilful  lover  shall  hit  thy  father,  fair  and 
square,  on  the  breast,  in  a  courteous  bout,  that  day 
shall  see  thy  betrothal  — " 

put  the  girl  had  torn  herself  from  his  embrace  and 
turned  on  him  with  petulant  eyes  and  quivering  lips. 

"Why,  father,  father!  —  that  means  never?  Oh, 
do  you  play  with  me,  too?"  And  her  tears  welled 
up.  "Do  you  offer  but  again  to  take  away  so 
quickly?" 

Consternation  was  now  again  writ  on  both  the 
spring  faces;  the  autumn  countenance  of  Saviolo, 
however,  was  once  more  lit  by  a  gratified  smile. 

"Comfort  ye,  my  child,"  he  returned,  with  gentle 
meaning,  "stranger  miracles  have  taken  place!  I 
may  be,  as  Will  Shakespeare  hath  it,"  he  added, 
stooping  to  pick  up  one  of  Strange 's  silk  points, 
"the  very  butcher  of  a  silk  button  —  yet  am  I  no 
butcher  of  young  hearts." 


My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter  189 

On  the  following  day,  as  Master  Hal  Greene  came 
up  Godliman  Street,  bound  for  the  sign  of  the 
"Sword  Hand,"  he  encountered  Edward  Strange. 
He  noted  with  curiosity  that  his  friend  walked  down 
the  middle  of  the  way,  with  a  certain  air  of  self- 
consciousness ;  and  that,  on  his  hip,  instead  of 
the  former  well-known  ostentatiously  broad-bladed 
sword,  was  balanced,  somewhat  uncomfortably,  a 
slender  swept-hilted  rapier  of  unmistakable  Italian 
length. 

"Yes,  Hal  —  it  is  even  so,"  said  Strange,  smiling, 
with  a  slight  blush.  "Call  it  a  conversion,  call 
it  a  wager  with  fate,  or  anything  you  will;  but,  as 
you  love  me,  inquire  no  more  till  the  wager  be  de- 
cided." 

On  Lammas  Eve,  in  the  Hall  of  the  Inner  Temple, 
there  was  played  a  prize  at  sword  and  dagger.  The 
function  was  well  attended,  for  it  was  well  known 
that  Master  Vincent  himself  would  fight  a  bout  with 
one  of  his  most  favoured  scholars,  Edward  Strange. 

To  the  amazement  of  everyone  —  or  nearly  so  — 
the  hitherto  invincible  rapier-and-dagger  man  was 
hit,  once  only,  it  is  true,  but  most  palpably,  by  the 
scholar. 

Her  Majesty,  who  graced  the  occasion  with  her 


190  My  Rapier  and  my  Daughter 

presence  (no  doubt  by  my  Lord  of  Essex's  per- 
suasion) expressed  approval  of  Signor  Vincentio's 
mastery  of  the  elegant  weapon;  she  was  indeed 
observed  to  handle  and  apprise  it  with  a  grace  of  her 
own  as  she  discussed  the  merits  of  the  new  fence  in 
Italian,  loud  and  clear,  that  all  might  hear  who  list. 

And  she,  no  doubt,  fully  appreciated  the  master's 
explanation  of  the  scholar's  lucky  stroke :  —  The 
successful  thrust  was  an  imhroccata  (following  the 
fincture  as  of  falsomanco),  pushed  in  guise  of  cari- 
cado  by  a  pass  and  hoUa  lunga.  It  should  have  been 
avoided  by  a  timely  incartata  and  promptly  punished 
by  the  punta-riversa.  But  the  youth's  nimbleness, 
it  seemed,  had  been  too  sudden,  his  eye  too  precise. 
...    In  sooth,  it  was  a  right  fair  hit ! 

So  thought  Her  Majesty,  for  she  patted  the  win- 
some young  swordsman  on  the  cheek  when  he  was 
brought  up  to  her,  and  vowed  he  was  worthy  of  his 
master. 

But  it  was  noted  that  her  countenance  evinced  less 
sympathy  when  Master  Vincent,  pointing  to  a  happy- 
faced  wench  in  grey  and  scarlet  taffeta  amid  the 
crowd  of  bystanders,  announced  Edward  Strange's 
approaching  nuptials  with  his  only  daughter. 


THE   GREAT  TODESCAN'S 
SECRET  THRUST 


THE  GREAT  TODESCAN'S  SECRET 
THRUST 


It  was  close  upon  noon,  hour  of  the  ordinary  at 
the  Bolt-in-Tun,  that  noted  tavern  over  against 
Ludgate,  by  the  Fleet. 

Hither  a  goodly  company  of  your  cavaliero  gentry, 
whether  captains  of  fortune  or  "town  gulls," 
were  wont  daily  to  foregather,  intent  as  much  upon 
the  gleaning  of  foreign  news  as  upon  the  savoury 
promise  of  dinner.  For  the  common-room  of  the 
Bolt-in-Tun  was  rarely  devoid  of  some  new  great 
man,  fresh  from  overseas  experience  and  full  of  tales 
as  a  hen  is  of  clacks.  Here  might  you  at  all  times 
reckon  upon  the  diversion  of  stirring  stories  of  Bo- 
hemia or  Eldorado ;  of  Castile's  splendour  or  cruelty ; 
of  border  onsets  and  leaguers ;  of  outfalls  and  cami- 
sadoes  in  Portugal  or  Muscovy ;  of  boardings,  wrecks, 
and  discoveries  about  the  Spanish  Main  —  admirable 

and  much  admired  adventures  which  nevertheless 
o  193 


194         The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust 

seemed,  as  a  rule,  to  have  left  their  hero  none  the 
wealthier,  save  in  fine-chased,  outlandish  oaths. 

But  this  day  (the  last  of  September  in  the  year 
1602,  forty-fourth  of  Elizabeth's  reign)  the  ruffling 
community  at  the  Tun,  old  and  young,  all  lovers  of  a 
blade,  was  too  deeply  engrossed  in  the  topic  of  the 
London  hour  to  have  much  interest  to  spare  for 
travellers'  tales.  Yet  the  latest  oracle  —  a  man  tall, 
grey-bearded,  of  freebooting  manner  and  conscious 
truculence  of  mien  —  was  not  only  well  prepared  (as 
his  attitude  testified)  to  fill  his  post  with  due  relish, 
but,  unlike  many  of  his  kind,  bore  evidence  of  having 
really  countered  many  hard  knocks  of  fate.  One 
hollow  orbit  and  a  gash  that  had  shorn  his  weather- 
beaten  countenance  of  the  best  part  of  an  ear,  not  to 
speak  of  a  left  hand  reduced  to  one  finger  and  a 
thumb  —  each  memento  of  adventure  might  in  its 
turn  have  served  for  fitting  introduction  to  some  tall 
story. 

For  the  moment  he  sat  in  moody  silence,  his  single 
eye  roaming,  fierce  and  wary,  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  eager  faces  about  him  —  watching  for  the  chance, 
it  seemed,  of  springing  upon  the  talk  and  then  holding 
it  as  his  own.  From  time  to  time  he  lifted  the  ale-pot 
to  his  lips  with  that  mutilated  hand  of  his  that  yet 


MARIA-ANNUNZIATA 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         195 

showed  menace  in  its  pinch.  At  length  a  scanty 
stock  of  patience  seemed,  of  a  sudden,  to  fail  him; 
he  raised  a  voice  that  drew  every  eye  upon  him :  — 

"Vincent,  again!"  quoth  he.  "By  the  curse  of 
Mahound,  who  may  this  Vincent  be  that  ye  all 
should  be  gathering,  in  thought,  like  so  many  rats, 
to-day  round  his  carcase?  Let  us  talk  of  living 
men,  my  springalds,  and  let  the  dead  go  rot !  For, 
by  your  laments,  I  take  it  that  he's  dead  in  his  bed 
even  as  any  old  woman  —  this  same  gallant  Vincentio 
Saviolo !" 

For  an  instant  there  was  that  pause  round  the 
table  which  marks  the  hearing  of  some  monstrous 
pronouncement ;  then  a  sudden  clamour  among  the 
huffing  crowd,  a  scraping  of  boots  and  spurs  as  sundry 
started  to  their  feet,  a  mouthing  of  oaths,  a  jingling 
of  cans  as  others  turned  upon  their  bench  to  confront 
the  blasphemer.  It  required  all  mine  host's  per- 
suasiveness to  quell  the  rising  threat,  aided,  no 
doubt,  by  the  steadiness  of  the  adventurer's  single 
orb  that  looked  with  much  mastery  out  of  the  tanned 
visage. 

"I  pray  you,  masters,  no  tumult  here,  and  on  this 
day !  And  pray  you,  good  Captain  Strongitharm, 
you  should  know  that  the  name  of  Vincent  Saviolo, 
the  great  master  of  fence,  who  died  but  yestereve, 


196         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

is  one  we  speak  here  with  respect.  Where  shall  he 
be  mourned  more  than  at  Bolt-in-Tun,  which  has 
sounded  to  his  tread  daily  these  twenty  years? — But 
you  are  from  foreign  parts,  captain,  and  have  not 
known  him." 

"  'Twas  the  tallest  man  of  his  hands,  at  all  manner 
of  weapons,  but  above  all  at  rapier  play,"  asserted 
a  gallant  from  the  end  of  the  table,  and  made  in 
dumb-show,  with  his  two  forefingers  extended,  the 
sketch  of  a  pass  with  sword  and  dagger. 

"The  subtlest  arbiter  in  all  matters  of  honourable 
difficulty,"  cried  another,  older  and  grave.  The 
encomium  was  capped  by  a  mincing  youth  with  a 
Court  air  about  him:  — 

"  A  most  noted  favourite,  look  you,  of  Her  Majesty. 
Her  Grace  liked  above  all  things  to  be  heard  tripping 
Italian  with  the  gallant  signor.  —  Ah,  her  Grace 
knows  a  right  proper  man !"  added  he,  and  smiled 
as  one  who  has  his  reasons  for  saying  so. 

"Ay,  ay,"  commented  mine  host  genially,  glad  to 
see  the  vexed  question  like  to  be  settled  by  way  of 
tongue  only,  "and  of  late  years  Master  Vincent  was 
likewise  a  friend  of  my  good  Lord  of  Pembroke  !" 

"And  I'll  tell  you  more,"  interposed  a  rafiish 
blade  from  the  'Friars,  much  bedizened,  if  somewhat 
out  at  elbows :  "one  who  first  put  a  rapier  in  Master 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         197 

Will  Shakespeare's  hand  —  one  who  was  himself 
the  'butcher  of  a  silk  button'  (O  rare  !),  as  Mercutio 
hath  it  in  the  play!" 

Captain  Strongitharm's  little,  fierce  eye,  which  had 
mellowed  under  something  like  amusement,  sud- 
denly became  fixed  upon  the  doorway. 

"Here  come  two  as  goodly  youths,"  he  asserted  into 
space,  "as  I  have  seen  since  I  landed !  But,  by  St. 
Paul,  whence  do  our  honest  English  lads  get  know- 
ledge of  these  foreign  antics  ?  In  my  time,  an  elbow 
in  the  stomach  was  the  way  to  settle  precedence  if 
doorway  was  scant  for  t\yo." 

"  Aha,  now  ! "  exclaimed  the  gallant  who  was  of  the 
Court,  "  these  same  antics,  as  you  call  them,  are  as  a 
point  of  honour  with  all  scholars  of  our  lamented 
Master  Vincent ;  and  all  the  more  punctiliously  ob- 
served by  yonder  pair  that,  from  the  friends  they 
were  yesterday,  they  have  become  rivals  to-day." 

"Say  you  so?"  cried  eagerly  a  young  gull  from 
the  other  side  of  the  table.     "  How  so,  fair  sir  ?  " 

"Why,  'tis  the  sole  talk  in  Paul's  Walk  this  morn- 
ing. Have  you  never  heard?  Robert  Beckett  and 
Dick  Wyatt  are  (by  Signor  Vincentio's  dying  wish, 
expressed  to  my  Lord  Pembroke  himself)  to  con- 
tend for  the  reversion  of  the  master's  honours  in  the 


198         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

'Friars,  ay,  and  of  the  mastership  itself  at  the 
academy !" 

All  glances  were  now  turned  towards  the  door, 
to  gaze  upon  the  two  who  had  assumed  so  sudden  an 
importance  in  the  ruffling  world.  The  question  of 
courteous  precedence  had  been  settled,  and  the 
shorter  of  the  new-comers  advanced  into  the  room 
with  a  slow  step  and  an  air  of  gravity  that  seemed 
to  sit  uneasily  upon  his  comely,  sanguine  counte- 
nance.— A  goodly  youth,  as  the  captain  had  it: 
broad-shouldered,  sinewy,  his  bright  brown  eyes 
seemed  made  to  match  a  flashing  smile. 

"  Master  Robert  Beckett,  a  student  at  the  Temple. 
Good  Kentish  stock,  sir,"  murmured  mine  host 
confidentially  into  Strongitharm's  split  ear.  "And 
behind  him,  sir,  his  friend,  Master  Wyatt." 

"A  tall  galliard,"  commented  the  adventurer, 
"though  less  of  the  gentleman  than  your  Templar." 

"Ay,  good,  sir,"  assented  the  other,  still  under  his 
voice ;  "  your  perspicacity  has  hit  in  the  gold.  'Twas 
a  mere  City  'prentice  till  some  good  dame  marked 
him  for  her  heir,  and,  dying,  left  him  rich." 

"Master  Vincent's  two  best  scholars,  sir  traveller," 
here  interposed  a  typical  Paul's  man,  with  long  tooth 
and  ragged  lip,  fixing  on  the  veteran  an  aggressive 
stare,  and  speaking  loud  as  one  in  hopes  of  stirring 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         199 

up  the  drooping  spirit  of  fight.  "These  are  the 
lads  to  take  up  with  you  for  the  fame  of  Saviolo's 
academy." 

Under  the  insolent  look,  the  old  man's  blood  was 
fired  again.     He  struck  the  table  with  his  sound  hand. 

"  Good  lack  !"  he  cried  testily,  "Saviolo,  Saviolo  ! 
I've  a  surfeit  of  the  name  !" 

As  the  words  rang  out,  Master  Beckett  halted  and 
faced  the  speaker.  Then,  with  measured  action,  he 
unhooked  his  rapier  and  clapped  it,  still  sheathed,  on 
the  table.  Not  brutally,  mark  you,  but  with  that 
nice  hinting  of  declared  hostility  that  was  to  be 
learned  in  the  inner  room  of  Saviolo's  academy, 
where  the  more  recondite  points  of  honourable 
quarrelling  were  studied. 

After  which  he  sat  down  in  silence,  half  facing 
this  contemner  of  the  revered  master.  Stillness  had 
fallen  upon  the  room.  Even  the  drawer  hung  in 
the  doorway  to  watch  progress. 

A  gleam  of  new  appreciation  appeared  in  the  vet- 
eran's solitary  orb.  For  a  while  he  gazed  upon  the 
Templar;  then,  slowly  smiling,  raised  his  tankard 
and  saluted. 

"'Twas  right  gallantly  done,  young  sir,"  he  said. 
"Don  Lewis  Pacheco  de  Narvaez"  —  Spanish  pro- 
nounced with  exaggerated  lisp  — "  Don  Lewis,  who 


200         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

follows  the  footsteps  of  the  great  Carranza  —  mirror 
of  cavalier  perfection  —  never  put  the  countercheck 
quarrelsome  with  better  grace  !  You  mind  me  of  him, 
fair  youth,"  he  went  on  paternally.  "Hast  travelled 
doubtless?  Nay,  I'll  swear  thou  hast  met  him. 
None  but  your  Castillano,  say  I,  to  open  a  difference 
with  the  right  martial  scorn." 

"Sir,"  retorted  Beckett,  with  some  harshness, 
giving  his  beaver,  as  he  spoke,  a  bellicose  dent  with 
his  knuckles,  "I  claim  no  travels,  and  therefore  no 
Spanish  schooling.  Nor  have  I  known  a  brighter 
mirror  of  honourable  bearing  than  Master  Vincent 
Saviolo,  whose  loss  we  are  this  day  lamenting." 

"Saviolo! — Why,  'tis  as  the  burthen  of  a  song!" 

"And  this,"  the  young  man  interrupted,  of  a  sud- 
den overboiling,  "I  am  ready  to  maintain  with  dis- 
putation, and  eke  with  my  body,  against  any  soldado 
or  capitan  who  will  walk  !" 

"Well  crowed  for  a  cockerel,  fair  sir !  since  crow- 
ing there  must  be,  yet  —  mark  me  —  somewhat 
too  loud  at  first  point  of  quarrel.  Hast  come  to  the 
challenge  already,  and  upon  a  lie  circumstantial  only  ? 
And  as  for  thy  retort,  it  lacks  first  element.  'Nor 
have  I  known,'  say  you.  How  couldst  thou  know? 
Hast  not  travelled.  Cockaigne  is  fair  enough :  'tis 
not  the  world.    How  old  are  you,  boy?    Think- 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         201 

est  thou,  because  thou  hast  achieved  fair  London 
skill  in  thy  rapier,  couldst  already  have  the  whole  art 
and  mystery  of  fence  under  that  saucy  cap  ?  —  which 
same  thou  mayest  as  well  remove  at  this  stage,  lad, 
for  I  will  not  fight  thee." 

"Nay,  then,  sir,  'twere  fitter  not  to  dispute  when 
there  is  no  readiness  to  prove." 

The  retort,  given  in  a  tone  of  doggedness,  was 
capped  drily  enough :  — 

"Ay;  'tis  easy  for  April  to  challenge  December. 
Time  was  —  look  you  —  when  I  would  have  met  not 
thee,  but  this  Saviolo  himself  in  proper  wrangle  and 
disputation.  Ay;  I  would  mayhap  have  confuted 
his  passes  with  suitable  blade-logic  !  Wilt  thou  fight 
me  for  thy  teacher's  sake?" 

He  stretched  out  his  left  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  laid 
it,  not  unkindly  but  with  some  authority,  on  Master 
Beckett's  arm.  Ere  the  lad  could  fling  off  the  touch, 
he  caught  sight  of  the  maimed  stumps,  and  red- 
dened. 

"Ay,"  went  on  the  old  soldier,  resignedly;  "that 
was  my  dagger  hand  —  a  halbert  at  the  infall  of  the 
Pamplona  palisadoes !  'Tis  gone ;  fit  for  naught  but 
the  holding  of  a  pipe  or  the  ringing  of  a  coin.  And 
without  your  dagger,  these  days,  your  rapier's  best 
strokes  in  counter-time  are  naught.     To  such  as  me, 


202         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

your  broad  bilbo  "  —  he  jerked  his  thumb  towards  the 
basket-hilt  that  hung  behind  him  on  the  wall  —  "is 
the  only  thigh  companion.  Plain  cut  and  thrust ! 
and  the  less  occasion  for  it  the  healthier.  For  in  all 
fighting  —  as  one  of  your  mastery,  fair  sir,  full  well 
knows  —  he  who  trusts  long  to  mere  defence  waits 
but  to  be  hit.  'Tis  the  onslaught  wins  the  duello.  .  .  . 
And  to  what  manner  of  onslaught,  think  you,  master, 
will  this  timber  lead  me  against  thy  lusty  legs?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  hoisted  himself  from  the  bench, 
thrusting  his  figure  into  a  burlesque  attitude  of  fence ; 
and  it  became  plain  to  all  that  his  right  leg  was  naught 
but  a  wooden  stump. 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  room,  followed  by  a 
general  shout  of  laughter;  but  the  old  man  struck 
at  the  wood  with  the  knife  he  was  brandishing,  and 
lumbered  back  to  his  bench.  Then,  after  surveying 
the  piteous  makeshift  for  a  missing  limb  with  an 
air  of  melancholy  philosophy,  he  turned  his  shrewd 
eye  once  more  on  the  youth's  abashed  face. 

"Time  was!"  he  repeated,  between  a  sigh  and  a 
laugh.  "I  be  now  but  a  hulk,  towed  into  harbour 
at  last,  from  long  journeys,  unfit  for  fresh  cruises. 
But  what  though?  A  man  may  be  no  more  for 
jaunty  quarrels,  yet  he  may  speak  —  Ho  there, 
Thomas  the  drawer :  bring  me  a  quart  of  burnt  sack, 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         203 

put  me  a  toast  in  it,  and  place  it  me  by  my  young 
fellow's  elbow  ! — Nay,  lad,"  he  added  with  a  kind  of 
paternal  authority,  "but  you  shall  have  a  nooning- 
cup  with  me." 

"Oh,  sir — "  cried  Beckett,  and  his  lips  trembled 
upon  words  of  regret  that  failed  to  form  themselves. 

The  drawer  had  returned  with  the  brimming 
tankard ;  the  roast  crab  bobbing,  a  little  brown  island, 
in  the  frothing  amber  of  the  burnt  sack.  The  young 
Templar  seized  the  cup,  and,  pledging  the  donor 
with  his  frank  glance,  raised  the  draught  to  his  lips. 
Then,  removing  his  rapier  from  the  table,  further 
doffed  his  cap  with  pretty  deference. 

DickWyatt,  who  had  watched  his  rival's  behaviour, 
fruitlessly  racking  his  brain  the  while  in  search  of 
some  right  proper  cavalier-like  sally  of  his  own,  here 
followed  the  example,  if  more  awkwardly,  and  sat 
down  on  the  other  side.  Strongitharm  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  with  benevolent  interest. 

"And  so  you  two  boys  are  rivals  for  the  great 
prize  !" 

The  glances  of  the  two  young  men  met.  Blue 
eyes  and  brown  flashed  a  second  like  blades.  Then, 
upon  a  common  thought,  were  veiled  with  dropped 
lids;  and  both  boyish  faces  coloured  deep. 


204         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

"It  was  the  master's  wish,"  said  Beckett  then. 
"He  could  not  choose  between  us." 

Wyatt  tossed  his  fair  curls  with  sudden  defiance. 

"'Twill  be  a  rare  sight,  Master  Traveller,"  quoth 
he,  with  not  unbecoming  arrogance.  "Trial  in  the 
'Friars  at  rapier  single,  rapier  and  dagger,  rapier  and 
cloak,  the  case  of  rapiers ;  on  the  scaffold,  under  my 
Lord  Pembroke's  ordering.  Ah,  and  under  her 
Grace's  own  eyes !  We  have  six  months  to  be  ready 
against  the  match." 

And  again  the  young  eyes  met. 

Captain  Strongitharm  cast  round  the  table  a  glance 
of  triumph.  In  spite  of  the  counter-interest,  he  was 
at  last  the  leader  of  the  meeting.  He  chuckled  in  his 
beard,  cleared  his  throat,  and  now  took  the  lead  that 
was  his  due :  — 

"Having  heard  you,  sirs,  there  even  comes  to 
me  a  regret  that  I  knew  not  this  Master  Vincent. 
(It  was  soon  after  the  great  year  of  Cadiz  that  I  sailed 
from  home.)  God,  no  doubt,  made  him  a  good  man, 
since  the  youth  of  England  loved  him  so  greatly. 
Nathless,  what  know  ye  of  other  lands  where  cun- 
ning at  tricks  of  point  and  edge  is  as  common  as 
potency  at  ale-potting  is  among  us  ?  What  know  ye 
of  lands  where  the  long  rapier  is  the  true  staff  of  life  ? 
— For,  hark  ye,  in  these  days,  your  Signor,  your  Don, 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust        205 

your  Mounseer  find  a  commodity  of  secret  foynes 
better  equipment  on  a  walk  through  the  town  than  the 
best-lined  pouch.  No  gallant  worth  looking  at  that 
has  not  killed  his  man  !  There,  every  captain  of  for- 
tune and  eke  every  private  gentleman,  if  he  weathers 
the  thirtieth  year  unscathed,  must  needs  be  indeed  a 
master-sword.  Ay,  believe  me,  he  who  would  set 
up  as  a  master,  let  him  have  met  abundance  of  cun- 
ning blades  —  not  scores,  but  hundreds !  More  to 
learn  every  year,  north  and  south.  If  it  be  not  in 
Antwerp,  then  in  Milan  or  Madrid.  Now,  where  in 
England — " 

"I  greatly  marvel,  sir,"  put  in  a  gallant,  huffily 
preparing  to  rise,  "at  hearing  an  Englishman  extol 
the  foreigner's  valour  over  his  countryman's." 

n 

The  veteran's  eye  lighted  with  a  flash.  He  was 
about  to  make  a  scathing  reply,  but  checked  himself 
and  resumed  his  didactic  tone :  — 

"Valour?  We  speak  of  fencer's  skill,  not  of  the 
soldier's  fight  natural,  wherein  (who  should  chron- 
icle it  better  than  I,  Captain  Strongitharm  ?)  our 
English  do  excel  at  push  of  pike  and  swash  of  good 
backsword.  We  speak  of  the  duello.  It  has  rules 
of  bearing  galore :    ay,  and   surprises   endless,  as 


2o6         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

on  any  chessboard.  And  no  man  may  say  that  he 
has  encompassed  them  all.  Great  he  may  be,  even 
as  your  dead  Vincent  .  .  .  till  a  greater  be  found." 

Eager,  the  circle  now  hung  on  the  words.  None 
more  eager  than  the  two  young  rivals,  who  had  edged 
along  the  bench  till  they  pressed  the  speaker  on  either 
side.  Brown  eyes  sparkling,  white  teeth  flashing, 
Beckett  flung  a  breathless  question  into  the  first 
pause :  — 

"Who,  then,  most  experienced  captain,  since — " 
dropping  his  voice  in  melancholy  loyalty,  "smce 
our  Vincent  is  no  more,  reckon  you,  is  the  true 
master  of  these  days?" 

The  fine  old  wreck  of  venture  was  now  fully 
launched  upon  the  waters  of  garrulity.  He  turned  his 
single  eye  towards  the  rafter,  as  if  he  could  see  painted 
thereon  some  vivid  images  of  memory. 

"Ah,  who  shall  say?"  he  went  on  with  gusto. 
"  Not  I,  till  I  have  seen  all  those  who  would  be  called 
masters,  brought  together  in  one  pit  and  matched  as 
cocks  are  in  battle  royal.  Ay,  the  talk  is  now  of  the 
peerless  Narvaez  of  Madrid.  Yet  have  I  known  others 
as  magnificently  spoke  of.  There  is  Petty  Jean,  the 
Burgonian,  look  you  .  .  .  and  the  Seigneur  St. 
Didier  of  Provence.  And  we  hear  much  of  Caizo 
the  Neapolitan  and  Tappa,  Milanese  .  .  .  and  of 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         207 

Mynheer  Joachim,  best  famed  as  the  Great  Almayne 
.  .  .  and  I  have  known  Meister  Elsenkopf,  ahas 
Mastro  Capoferro  of  Bologna  —  a  vaHant.  Valiant  ? 
They  are  all  valiant  as  cocks,  on  their  own  ground ! 
Ever,  when  I  hear  of  a  new  mighty  peck-and-spur, 
I  marvel  what  would  happen  of  the  last,  could  they 
both  meet  on  the  same  dunghill !  I  knew  one,  espe- 
cially, of  late ;  and,  by  St.  Paul !  were  I  a  youth  again, 
with  limbs  and  eyes  and  blood  fit  for  prowess ;  were 
I  one  of  those  that  are  ever  readier  with  proof  by 
stoccata  than  with  word  argument,  with  slap  of  cloak 
at  the  face  than  with  sweep  of  plumed  hat  .  .  ." 
He  struck  Beckett  on  the  shoulder  with  the  mutilated 
hand  in  friendly  mockery,  to  emphasise  his  words; 
and  at  the  same  time  (not  to  leave  the  eager  boy  on 
the  right  out  of  his  amenity)  gave  Wyatt  a  sly  thrust 
of  his  wooden  leg  under  the  table .  Then  he  proceeded : 
"Were  I  one  of  your  wild  cats,  say  I,  'tis  not  to  Don 
Lewis,  nor  to  Thibault  of  Antwerp,  nor  yet  to  Caval- 
cabo  of  Rome  that  I  would  hie  me  —  though  Caval- 
cabo  was  a  man  ...  ere  he  was  slit  to  the  heart  by 
one  Fabricius,  a  Danish  gentleman,  all  about  a  mat- 
ter of  wager  in  fencing  argument.  To  none  of  these 
.  .  .  but  to  one  like  Maistre  Todescan,  of  Geneva." 
Now,  it  was  singular  to  note  how,  at  this  point, 
both  the  scholars  flung  a  furtive  glance  towards  each 


2o8         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

other,  arrested  midway,  and  modestly  dropped  again 
upon  their  can.  Singular,  too,  the  abstract  air  they 
assumed ;  and  the  tone  of  indifiference  in  v/hich  Dick 
Wyatt  presently  asked :  — 

"And  what  countryman  was  he,  worthy  captain?" 

The  veteran,  who,  lost  in  fond  retrospection,  had 

been  meditatively  twirling  his  tankard  to  stir  up  the 

last  drop  of  sugar,  tilted  it  finally,  smacked  his  lips, 

and  was  off  again :  — 

"Would  I  could  say  of  such  a  manqueller:  he  is 
an  Englishman !  But  no.  They  call  him  Todes- 
can !  Ho,  ho  !  I  once  met  a  corporal  in  Piedmont 
they  called  Espingola,  who  was  the  longsword-man 
of  a  German  company.  Now  ...  an  he  and  my 
Todescan  were  not  within  the  same  skin  —  But 
'tis  no  part  of  an  old  soldier's  to  rake  up  tales ! 
So  Todescan  he  is,  from  Provence,  and  a  Hugue- 
not ...  let  him  have  it  so  !  Anyhow,  he  is  a  great 
man  in  Geneva  now,  provost-of-arms,  trainer  of  the 
town  companies,  accepted  citizen.  .  .  .  Ay,  ay, 
those  long-headed  burghers,  ever  thinking  of  their 
ravening  neighbours  in  the  mountains  of  Savoy, 
have  gauged  the  worth  of  such  a  man !  Espingola 
was  a  good  rogue,  stuffed  with  fighting  tricks  as  a 
brush  is  with  bristles,  and  the  simplest  of  them  worth 
a  Jew's  eye.  .  .  .    Todescan  sings  psalms,  hath  no 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         209 

variety  in  his  swearing,  and  holds  an  even  prospect 
of  not  dying  in  his  boots  after  all.  But  the  youth 
of  Geneva  sucks  knowledge  out  of  him  as  a  weasel 
sucks  an  egg !  Yet,"  added  the  speaker  slily,  as 
he  marked  the  changing  visage  of  the  young  Templar, 
"  rest  ye  merry,  masters.  They  are  little  likely  to  cross 
the  silver  sea  to  contest  it  with  you  for  Saviolo's 
honours !" 

Beckett  rose  suddenly.  "  I  cry  you  mercy,  captain," 
he  said,  taking  up  his  rapier  from  the  wall  and  sling- 
ing it  briskly  back  to  its  carriages,  as  if  moved  by  a 
mighty  haste.  "I  would  we  could  invite  you  to  a 
friendly  bout  on  the  scaffold.     But,  since  it  cannot  be 

—  Bellona  having  marked  you  too  often  for  her  own 

—  why,  then,  give  you  good  den,  Signor  Strong- 
itharmo !" 

The  captain  rose  upon  his  stump,  went  through  an 
elaborate  congee ;  then  stood,  with  good-humoured 
mien,  watching  the  young  man  salute  his  comrade 
and  stride  out  of  the  door  in  right  dapper  deport- 
ment. When  the  last  inch  of  the  smartly  cocked 
rapier-scabbard,  neatly  draping  a  flap  of  the  cloak, 
had  disappeared  round  the  corner,  he  himself  called 
for  his  bilbo  and  cape.  As  he  flung  the  patched  folds 
with  noble  gesture  about  his  old  shoulders,  he  found 
Dick  Wyatt  at  his  elbow. 


2IO         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

"Ah,  fare  ye  well,  young  sir,"  said  he  genially. 
"Shall  ye  take  advice?  Then,  till  your  locks  are 
blanched  and  rare,  like  these,  never  believe  you  have 
that  skill,  not  only  in  your  rapier-play  but  in  any  art 
military,  which  is  not  some  day  to  be  caught  in  a  trap. 
.  .  .  Now,  I  mind  me,  being  in  Genoa,  the  year  of 
the  great  Barbary  sailing,  there  was  mighty  talk  of 
a  new-fangled  kind  of  firepot,  and  —  " 

"But,  nay,  good  captain,  let  me  entreat  you  yet 
to  one  moment  more  of  rapier-talk.  An  it  please 
you,  I  would  fain  attend  you  on  your  walk  home." 

And,  as  the  clank  of  the  lusty  young  spurred  heel 
presently  rang  out  past  the  open  window  of  the  tav- 
ern, punctuated  by  the  thud  of  the  voyager's  wooden 
stump  on  the  cobble-stones  of  Fleet  Lane,  the  lin- 
gerers within  the  room  could  hear  a  boyish  voice 
stammering  outlandish  names:  Meyer  .  .  .  Thi- 
bault  .  .  .  Capoferro  .  .  .  Todescan  —  Todescan, 
of  Geneva. 


m 


It  was  on  the  eleventh  day  of  December,  by  Eng- 
lish reckoning ;  on  the  twenty-second  according  to 
the  new  Gregorian  calendar  as  used  in  foreign  lands, 
that  Dick  Wyatt,  at  a  turning  of  the  road  by  the 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         211 

elbow  of  a  hill,  came  in  sight  of  the  goal  of  his  long 
journeying. 

Reining  in  his  nag,  he  gazed.  Yonder  was  Geneva ! 
It  rose  in  the  distance  from  the  plain,  severe  within 
its  bastioned  walls,  a  few  spires  faintly  gilt  by  the 
parting  rays  of  the  sun,  that  was  fast  sinking  behind 
the  further  chain  of  low  hills.  There  was  something 
in  the  spring  of  the  cathedral  on  its  eminence,  above 
the  black,  clustering  roofs,  which  brought  back  to  his 
mind,  with  a  transient  pang  of  yearning,  the  outline  of 
Paul's  on  the  Ludgate  heights,  away  in  far  England. 
In  the  forefront  the  Rhone  bounded  and  roared, 
foaming  in  its  southward  race.  Beyond  the  grim 
city  spread  the  dark  waters  and  the  silence  of  Lake 
Leman.  Beyond  again,  through  the  clear,  frosty 
air,  against  a  darkening  sky,  towered  the  still  gold 
and  rosy  snows  of  Savoy. 

The  sight,  impressive  enough  as  the  sudden  vision 
of  a  long-dreamed-of  journey's  end,  was  specially  wel- 
come at  the  end  of  a  day's  ride  through  bitter  weather 
and  sorely  rough  ways.  As  the  traveller  gazed,  with 
eyes  of  satisfaction,  not  unmixed  with  awe,  a  distant 
boom  rolled  through  the  still  air. 

Many  experiences  had  Dick  Wyatt  gone  through 
since  he  had  left  his  peaceful  island :  among  others, 


212         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

the  disastrous  one  of  closed  town-gates  at  fall  of 
night.  He  spurred  his  tired  mount,  therefore ;  and 
it  was  with  but  a  few  minutes  to  spare  that  he 
reached  the  Porte  de  Cornevin,  and  found  himself 
inside  the  staid  stronghold  of  Calvinism.  Before 
being  granted  free  entrance,  he  was  suspiciously 
questioned  by  the  sergeant  of  the  burgher-guard, 
on  his  character,  religion,  and  the  purpose  of  his 
journeying;  an  examination  which  he  passed  with 
some  difficulty,  for  French  was  still  unready  to 
his  tongue.  So  soon,  however,  as  it  transpired  that 
his  business  was  with  one  Mattre  Todescan,  the  sour 
visage  of  the  sergeant  relaxed ;  he  was  not  only  ad- 
mitted, but  sped  on.  Any  friend  of  worthy  Master 
Todescan,  Provost  of  the  town  companies,  must  be 
welcome  in  Geneva ! 

And  so,  all  in  the  uncertain  light  of  a  wintry, 
orange  afterglow,  the  last  comer  to  the  town  found 
his  way  through  the  winding  streets  —  past  the  old 
Castel  of  St.  Gervais,  by  the  Pont  aux  Mariniers  over 
the  thundering  Rhone  as  it  rushes  out  of  the  lake, 
across  the  isle,  towards  the  steep  rising  Grand'  Rue, 
wherein  (so  had  said  the  burgher  sergeant)  dwelt  the 
great  Provost-at-arms,  "at  the  sign  of  the  Roy  David, 
just  a  pistol-shot  short  of  St.  Germain  Church." 

Dick  Wyatt,  as  men  will  who  are  haunted  by  a 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         213 

fixed  purpose,  paid  little  heed  to  aught  but  what  fell 
in  with  the  main  tenor  of  his  thoughts.  He  mar- 
velled not  at  the  prosperity  of  the  noble  Free-town ; 
at  the  orderly,  sober  throng,  the  breath  of  peace  that 
pervaded  the  place,  unlike  those  airs  of  furtive  mer- 
riment snatched  between  spells  of  disaster  which 
marked  the  war-ridden  towns  he  had  recently  passed 
through.  He  took  no  heed  of  the  houses,  wondrous 
tall,  showing  at  almost  every  floor  a  glow  of  fire  or 
lamp  that  met  you  like  a  smile  of  welcome.  But 
rather  he  marvelled  how  a  man  of  martial  renown, 
such  as  the  great  Todescan,  could  find  congenial 
dwelling  among  people  where  psalming  and  grave 
converse,  rather  than  the  ringing  of  spurs  and  the 
cocking  of  beavers,  seemed  the  chief  assertion  of 
manliness. 

And  it  made  his  heart  leap,  for  all  his  weariness, 
as  he  halted  at  length  before  the  Roy  David,  suddenly 
to  hear,  above  the  bustle  of  a  hostelry  at  supper-time, 
the  rousing  clank  of  iron,  the  stamp  of  foot  and  the 
sharp  cries  which  tell  of  the  fencing  hour.  He  raised 
his  head  and  perceived  that  the  sounds  proceeded 
from  a  row  of  windows  on  the  first  floor,  lighted  redly 
and  wide  open  in  spite  of  the  great  cold. 

"So  !    Todescan  at  last !" 

With  an  eager  presentiment  of  all  that  he  —  well- 


214         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

prepared  scholar,  if  ever  there  was  one  —  was  soon 
to  learn  under  those  projecting  gables,  Dick  Wyatt 
entered  the  door  of  the  inn.  —  Little  did  he  dream 
how  fast  his  knowledge  would  grow  that  very  night ! 

Mine  host  of  the  Roy  David  appraised  the  new- 
comer's appearance  with  one  look  of  an  experienced 
eye. 

"Ay,  faith  !  There  is  still  accommodation,  though 
my  house  is  all  but  full.  And  you  would  have  speech 
with  Master  Todescan?  And,  faith,  I  thought  as 
much.  Though,  what  there  is  in  our  Todescan 
that  you  all  should  thus  .  .  .  and  Englishmen  too ! 
But  I,  for  one,  have  no  call  to  grumble.  .  .  .  And 
I  may  make  bold  to  guess  further,  my  gentleman,  that 
you  desire  speech  of  Todescan  even  before  sight  of 
supper?     Eh?     Said  I  truly?" 

And  without  more  ado  the  traveller  was  conducted 
up  a  winding  stairway  to  the  door  of  the  fencing- 
room. 

It  was  a  long,  low,  beam-ceiled  gallery,  covering 
the  whole  depth  of  the  house  from  high  street  to  back 
lane;  lit  with  four  oil  lamps;  bare  of  all  furniture 
but  for  a  couple  of  forms  and  an  arm-rack  in  the  cor- 
ner. The  last  lesson  of  the  day  was  over.  A  heavy- 
looking  youth  had  just  drawn  on  his  doublet  and  was 
adjusting  its  points,  ever  and  anon  wiping  his  face 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         215 

and  the  back  of  his  neck,  spite  of  the  icy  blast  pour- 
ing through  the  open  windows. 

"Maltre  Todescan,"  cried  mine  host  from  the 
threshold,  all  professional  cheeriness,  "again  I  bring 
an  English  admirer  —  one,  mark  you,  that  cannot 
wait  another  hour  before  saluting  you  !  What  a  man 
you  are,  aha  !  No  doubt  you  would,  as  usual,  par- 
take of  supper  together  ?  I  leave  you.  But  the  time 
to  toss  that  basket  of  trout  into  the  pan,  and  to  car- 
bonade  a  rib  of  that  veal  —  Say  I  well  ?  Ay ;  and 
a  pitcher  of  the  white  wine  of  Morges  —  eh  ?  I  know 
—  I  know!" 

Without  waiting  for  reply,  he  retired,  leaving  Dick 
Wyatt  face  to  face  with  his  great  man. 

The  first  impression  was  curiously  unpleasant; 
and  Dick  was  seized  with  an  unexpected  revulsion  — a 
sense  of  resentment — as  against  something  unnatural. 
He  had  grown  accustomed  to  expect,  oddly  enough,  a 
genial  strain  as  inseparable  from  a  great  teacher  of 
the  murderous  science.  But  here  was  a  saturnine 
visage,  with  a  vengeance !  An  unformed  thought 
quickly  took  possession  of  the  Englishman's  mind  :  in 
practice  with  such  an  one,  cunning  strokes  of  fence 
would  assume  a  new,  gruesome  complexion  —  would 
savour  more  of  cruelty  and  treachery  than  of  skill. 


2i6         The  Great  Todescari's  Secret  Thrust 

As  a  fact,  Maitre  Todescan's  face  displayed  any- 
thing but  cordiality  at  that  instant.  It  was  with  the 
air  of  him  who  finds  his  time  trespassed  upon  at  a 
decidedly  inopportune  moment  that  he  turned  upon 
the  visitor,  looking  deeply  at  him.  Meanwhile  with  an 
engaging  glibness,  cultivated  on  repeated  occasions, 
the  youth  fell  to  explaining  his  presence.  For  a  spell 
Todescan  listened  in  silence ;  then  suddenly  seemed 
to  make  up  his  mind  to  more  graciousness.  A  smile 
found  its  way  to  his  lips,  without,  however,  reaching 
the  eyes,  that  remained  filled  as  with  some  dark  and 
absorbing  speculation :  — 

He  was  honoured.  Yes ;  he  would,  on  the  mor- 
row, offer  his  humble  services  to  the  gentleman. 
Now,  however,  he  must  go  forth.  He  had  charge 
to-night  of  the  burgher-guards'  watch.  But  to-mor- 
row —  He  bowed.  There  came  a  furtive  look  into 
the  close-set  eyes.  It  was  happy,  was  it  not?  for 
the  stranger  that  he  had  just  saved  the  hour  of  the 
setting  of  the  watch.  The  days  were  of  the  shortest. 
Had  he  encountered  any  noticeable  experience  on  his 
approach  to  Geneva?  Which  road  had  his  been? 
From  the  Bern  side  ?  Ah,  from  the  north  !  Maitre 
Todescan  stood  musing  for  a  moment.  Well,  he 
must  even  crave  the  young  master's  leave  until  the 
morrow. 


The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust         217 

The  man  spoke  with  a  conscious  air,  which  betrayed 
the  tardy  grafting  of  courtly  manners  upon  an  original 
stock  of  camp  brutality.  And  Dick  Wyatt,  escorted 
downstairs,  politely  but  firmly  shaken  off  at  the 
kitchen  door,  as  he  watched  the  fencing-master  wrap 
himself  up  scientifically  in  his  great  cloak  and  stride 
out  into  the  night,  had  a  fantastic  impression  as  one 
who  had  just  passed  by  an  unknown  personal  danger. 

In  some  dudgeon,  with  a  lingering  regret  for  the 
merry  taverns  of  Paul's  Chains  (oh,  how  far  they 
seemed  !),  the  Englishman  consumed  his  trout  and 
drank  his  thin  wine  by  himself.  And  soon  after, 
the  melancholy  drone  of  curfew  having  sounded  from 
a  neighbouring  tower,  he  wended  his  way  dejectedly 
to  the  bare  and  very  cold  room  allotted  to  him  just 
below  the  eaves. 

But  under  the  combined  influence  of  bodily  chill, 
over-fatigue,  and  mental  annoyance,  it  seemed  as 
though  decidedly  the  soothing  of  sleep  were  not  to  be 
granted  that  night.  After  a  few  hours  of  angry  toss- 
ing, the  youth  made  up  his  mind  to  defy  all  curfew 
laws :  he  struck  the  flint,  and  once  more  lit  the  small 
length  of  tallow  allotted  to  him. 

Geneva  at  last !  .  .  .  Three  months  since  he  had 
started  from  England,  but  a  few  days  after  that  tav- 
ern meeting  which  had  fired  his  young  blood ;  and 


2i8         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

throughout  the  burthen  of  his  thoughts  had  been 
Todescan.  .  .  .  Todescan  of  Geneva !  A  long  and 
tedious  way  it  had  been,  with  more  than  one  unpleas- 
ant adventure.  Laid  by  the  heels  at  Cologne,  through 
some  pernicious  fever;  hindered,  almost  at  every 
step,  by  his  ignorance  of  tongues,  of  travel.  .  .  . 
But  the  goal  was  reached  —  Geneva  at  last ! 

Wrapped  in  his  travelling-cloak,  he  began  to  re- 
hearse the  tale  of  his  fencing  knowledge  in  prepara- 
tion of  the  morrow's  ordeal,  when  he  should  face, 
foiled-rapier  in  hand,  "the  king  of  them  all,"  as 
Captain  Strongitharm  had  dubbed  this  Todescan. 

After  the  manner  of  men  enamoured,  living  in 
dreams  of  their  lady;  of  poets  haunted  by  rhymes 
and  lilts  and  metaphors ;  of  misers,  with  thoughts  ever 
circling  round  their  treasures  (madmen  all,  in  their 
degree),  so  this  youth,  on  whom  the  meretricious  new- 
f angle  rapier  had  cast  her  spell,  had  grown  mad,  mad 
as  any  lover,  rhymester,  or  harpagon;  fencing-mad 
ever  as  the  Martius  portrayed  by  Marston  —  no  un- 
common occurrence  about  these  years. 

The  few  inches  of  candle  supplied  by  the  Roy 
David  came  abruptly  to  an  end ;  the  long,  unstuffed 
wick  collapsed,  drowned  its  flame  with  a  sizzle,  and 
left  him  once  more  in  darkness.  Dick  Wyatt  was 
in  that  state  of  nocturnal  lucidity  of  mind  in  which  it 


The  Great  Todescan*s  Secret  Thrust         219 

seems  verily  as  if  sleep  would  never  be  known  again 
in  life.  He  remained  as  he  was,  sitting  up  in  bed, 
gazing  at  some  particular  bright  star  that,  between 
two  gables,  peered  into  the  blackness  of  his  room. 
In  time  the  star  progressed  out  of  sight,  and  he  had 
nothing  left  but  to  hearken  to  the  all-pervading  silence 
—  that  singular  silence  of  an  enclosed  town  buried 
in  slumber,  on  a  night  of  frost,  when  not  even  a 
prowling  animal  is  about. 

Into  the  great  stillness  the  tower-clock  of  a  neigh- 
bouring church  dropped  the  stroke  of  one.  The 
grave  note  reverberated  with  an  odd  emphasis ;  the 
pulsing  vibrations  hung,  lingering,  upon  the  air, 
as  if  in  warning.  Strangely,  the  reminder  of  the 
hour  appeared  to  break  a  spell.  At  first,  to  the 
musing  listener,  it  was  only  as  if  that  sense  of  death- 
like hush  had  departed.  True,  he  could  hear  noth- 
ing; yet  he  felt  as  if,  in  the  world  around,  were 
sounds  that  could  be  heard.  Presently  he  realised 
that  there  was  indeed  something  astir  under  the  silent 
scintillation  of  the  stars.  Filled  with  an  unaccount- 
able sense  of  surprise  he  sprang  out  of  bed;  and, 
standing  tiptoe  in  the  darkness,  strained  his  ear  to 
catch  he  knew  not  what.  A  moment  later  he  had 
pushed  open  the  casement  and  thrust  his  head  into 
the  cold  night :  a  rumour  without,  eery,  faint,  inter- 


220         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

mittent,  indefinable;  into  the  midst  of  it,  suddenly 
springing,  human  sounds ;  a  sharp  cry,  pain  or  rage ; 
a  call;  and  then  a  shot,  harquebuss  or  pistol;  an- 
other !  .  .  .  Silence  again.  And  now  a  clang  that 
made  the  woodwork  rattle.  All  was  clear  to  his 
mind's  eye  as  if  he  saw :  a  culverin  on  the  rampart 
had  spoken.  It  was  fight !  It  was  a  dead-of- 
night  assault  on  the  sleeping  town ! 

The  news  began  to  rush  like  water  from  open 
sluices  through  the  main  ways;  drums,  sharp  and 
panting,  ran  north  and  west,  chequering  the  night. 
One  came  drubbing  up  the  High  Street,  and  Dick 
bent  out  of  his  window  to  peer  down.  Nothing  to 
be  seen  but  a  denser  shadow  in  the  dark,  and  a  faint 
whiteness:  the  skin  of  the  drum.  But  out  of  the 
murk  rose  the  cry,  thrown  out  between  the  taps  in 
strangled  words  by  one  out  of  all  breath:  "Armes, 
armes  !  A  la  Tertasse  !  La  porte  est  prise  !  Armes  ! 
Au  Savoyard  !" 

Right  and  left  casements  clattered  back;  heads 
were  thrust  forth  with  much  exchange  of  exclama- 
tion. Half-dressed  men,  many  in  naught  but  shoes 
and  shirts,  came  hastening  out  of  their  houses,  hal- 
bert  or  matchlock  in  hand,  feverishly  concerting  as 
they  scurried  towards  the  west  ramparts,  from  whence 
the  clamour  upwelled.     And  presently,  over  all,  the 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust        221 

great  bell  of  the  cathedral  threw  the  clang  and  drone 
of  the  tocsin  —  lamentable,  making  the  windows,  the 
very  rafters,  shiver  as  if  with  terror  in  the  dark. 

Some  new  treachery  of  the  ever-treacherous  Ligue 
party.  .  .  .  The  ferocious  mercenaries  of  the  Duke 
of  Savoy.  .  .  .  The  sack  of  the  town.  .  .  .  'Twas 
a  fearsome  thing  to  contemplate — Les  Savoyards! 
Awe-struck  voices  cried  the  tidings  from  window  to 
window. 

Dick  Wyatt  understood  but  one  thing :  there  was 
fighting  forward.  And  a  new  spirit  awoke  in  him.  He 
thrust  his  feet  into  his  list  shoes  —  no  time  to  pull 
on  long  boots  —  buckled  his  sword  over  a  still  un- 
fastened doublet,  and  groped  his  way  down  the  black 
stairs  into  the  street.  Men  moved  like  shadows. 
Here  and  there  a  lanthorn  made  a  narrow  circle 
of  light.  More  shirts,  vaguely  white  in  the  all 
but  complete  darkness,  were  to  be  met  than  doublets 
or  cloaks ;  many  a  foot  went  bare  to  save  that  price- 
less minute  of  time  at  the  rampart  that  might  decide 
between  success  or  massacre.  With  jaws  firmly  set 
on  the  thought  of  the  coming  death-struggle  (ay,  and 
on  the  thought  of  children  and  women  !),  none  found 
breath  to  spare  for  words.  A  sudden  halt  was  called 
at  the  entrance,  squat  and  thick-pillared,  of  some 
monstrous  cavern,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Dick.     Pun- 


222         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

gent  into  the  crisp  air  spread  the  smell  of  apples, 
onions,  straw.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  Market  Hall !  A  man 
sprang  into  the  midst  of  them,  out  of  the  black. 
His  voice  rang  —  a  soldier's  voice,  accustomed  to 
command :  — 

"Back!  To  the  Bastion  de  Rive,  every  man! 
Every  man,  I  say !  The  attack  at  the  Tertasse  is 
but  a  feint.  The  enemy  is  at  the  Rive  Gate  1  That 
is  where  men  are  wanted  !    Back  !'* 

He  ran,  flinging  out  his  arms;  and  the  whole 
posse  turned  before  him  as  the  flock  before  the  sheep- 
dog. The  light  of  a  lantern  fell  upon  a  harsh,  thin 
face,  upon  gleaming,  small  eyes.  —  It  was  Todescan, 
the  Provost ! 

Dick  Wyatt's  soul  leaped  to  the  splendid  mastery 
of  this  soldier  in  the  emergency.  Here  was  the 
champion  in  his  right  place ;  here  the  leader  for  him ; 
here  a  gorgeous  chance  to  take  his  first  lesson  from 
the  terrible  blade  ! 

Upon  the  very  spring  of  this  elation  fell  a  sudden 
chilling  doubt.  The  last  of  the  crowd  had  moved 
lustily  up  the  narrow  street  once  more,  but  Todescan 
had  stopped  short ;  and,  with  a  stride  to  one  side,  and 
a  swift  glance  right  and  left,  he  had  dived  down 
an  alley.  After  a  second's  hesitation,  moved  by 
uneasy  curiosity,   Wyatt  bounded   forward   in   his 


The  Great  TodescarvS  Secret  Thrust        223 

wake,  found  the  mouth  of  the  entry,  and  noiselessly 
followed  in  pursuit. 

The  alley,  narrow,  winding,  and  all  but  closed 
from  the  skies  by  overhanging  eaves,  was  pitch  dark. 
But  the  rapid,  assured  footsteps  in  front  guided  him, 
and  he  was  able  to  thread  his  way.  At  a  turn  of  the 
lane,  a  vague  lifting  of  the  gloom  told  of  a  more  open 
space ;  and,  against  the  lighter  background,  the  black 
bulk  of  his  man  became  perceptible.  A  vague 
but  overpowering  suspicion  caused  Dick  Wyatt  to 
remain  concealed.  Todescan  had  halted.  His  steel 
cap,  catching  the  glint  of  starlight,  revealed  a  furtive 
movement  as  of  one  peering  and  hearkening.  Against 
the  faintly  luminous  sky,  a  crenellated  outline,  cut 
high  above,  told  the  nature  of  the  place  —  some 
inner  patrol-way  at  the  foot  of  the  town  walls. 
The  night  all  around  was  now  alive  with  rumour; 
but  this  open  spot  still  held  silence  and  emptiness. 
With  a  dart,  like  a  serpent,  Todescan  suddenly 
stooped,  and  from  under  a  pile  of  stones  (as  far  as 
the  listener  could  judge)  dragged  forth  some  heavy 
object. 

IV 

Wyatt  watched,  held  by  the  horrid  suspicion  that 
gripped  him  ever  more  sickeningly.     Todescan  was 


224         The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust 

fiercely  busy.  There  came  a  thud,  as  though  the 
unknown  instrument  of  mischief,  that  was  so  heavy 
and  clanked  on  the  cobbles  as  it  moved,  were  being 
thrust  against  a  door.  And  now,  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, danced  the  red  sparkle  of  flint  and  steel.  A 
faint  point  sprang  and  remained  aglow.  Thereafter, 
more  sparkle,  and  then  a  steady  fizzle.  Wyatt  was 
no  soldier,  but  he  knew  of  the  quick-match.  The 
little,  hissing  fire-snake  whispered  of  dire  treachery; 
with  its  evil  glimmer  it  lit  lurid  understanding  in  his 
brain.  .  .  .  An  unguarded  postern  in  the  ramparts, 
a  traitor  behind  it,  a  petard  to  blow  the  breach ! 

The  young  man's  blood  rose  in  fury.  He  drew  his 
sword ;  his  cry  rang  out  incoherently :  — 

"  O  base  and  murderous !  Treachery !  Hold  ! 
Rogue,  traitor,  renegade  rogue !  Help  there !  O 
sweet  Jesu !" 

The  English  words  could  be  but  mere  sounds  to  the 
knave ;  but  their  clamour  was  eloquent.  Todescan 
started,  wheeled  round ;  his  blade  leaped  forth.  The 
scintillation  of  the  match  cast  the  merest  trembling 
gleam,  yet  he  recognised  the  youth;  and,  cursing 
him  blasphemously  for  an  English  fool,  opposed  his 
headlong  attack  with  contemptuous  yet  vindictive 
mastery. 

For  a  single  moment,  that  yet  seemed  in  its  tension 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust        225 

to  pass  the  bounds  of  time,  as  Wyatt  found  himself 
under  the  glare  —  felt  rather  than  seen  —  of  those 
sinister  eyes,  that  from  the  first  had  struck  a  chill  to 
his  soul,  the  full  realisation  of  his  own  madness  swept 
upon  him.  Here  was  he  challenging  to  the  death 
the  world's  greatest  swordsman :  all  his  own  science 
served  but  to  emphasise  his  sense  of  appalling  help- 
lessness. But  even  at  the  first  meeting  of  blades  the 
misgiving  vanished.  His  spirit  rose  to  exaltation, 
stimulated  by  the  feeling  of  his  opponent's  superb 
mastery;  stimulated,  too,  by  the  low  chuckle  that 
Todescan  gave.  The  utter  scorn  of  it !  So  might 
a  demon  laugh  in  the  dark,  exulting  in  the  power 
of  his  own  evil. 

Upon  a  singular  trick  of  the  imagination,  as  in  the 
flash  of  a  vision,  the  youth  thought  to  be  once  more 
in  the  old  fencing-room  of  Paul's  Chains,  in  the  'Friars. 
There  rose  the  great  yellow  windows  looking  Thames- 
ward;  there  the  panelled  walls,  the  hacked  pillar; 
and  there,  over  the  point  of  his  own  rapier,  the  kindly, 
keen  face  of  his  revered  master ;  of  Saviolo,  the  mirror 
of  chivalrous  courtesy.  .  .  .  Hark  to  his  voice, 
admonitory  yet  encouraging :  — 

"Eh,  la!  point  in  Xm^,  figlio  mio;  ever  in  line! 
And  ever  lower  than  the  wrist !  Lower,  lower,  good 
lad !  Thumb  down,  and  up  with  the  little  finger, 
Q 


226         The  Great  Todescari's  Secret  Thrust 

elbow  out,  nearly  straight !  So,  stand  thus,  and  I 
promise  thee  ne'er  a  blade  in  the  world  shall  surprise 
thy  ward  !" 

As  if  in  obedience,  Dick  swiftly  fell  into  the  well- 
known  expectant  guard.  Even  as  he  did  so,  there 
was  a  jerk  —  it  was  almost  like  an  exclamation  of 
wonder  and  disappointment  —  in  the  steel  that 
pressed  on  his  own ;  and  Dick  Wyatt  was  back  again, 
fighting  for  his  life,  the  Genevan  cobblestones  under 
his  feet,  the  glimmer  of  the  quick-match  and  its 
steady  hiss,  frightful  menace  warning  him  to  haste ! 
He  gripped  the  ground  in  his  soft  shoes  (a  blessing  it 
was,  thought  he  swiftly,  he  had  not  waited  to  don  the 
great  boots  !) ;  he  set  his  teeth.  Never,  for  smallest 
breathing-space,  did  the  Provost's  terrible  long  blade 
release  his  own.  He  felt  it  gliding,  seeking  to  bind, 
fiercely  caressing;  felt  the  deadly  spring  behind  a 
tiger's  crouch;  felt  the  invincible,  unknown  thrust 
ready  against  his  first  weakening.  And  that  weaken- 
ing was  coming  apace  !  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  hold 
his  opposition.  As  a  kind  of  spell  cast  by  the  fingers 
of  steel,  by  the  superhuman  flexibility  of  his  oppo- 
nent's wrist,  a  palsy  seemed  to  be  creeping  up  his  own 
outstretched  arm.  One  twitch  of  relaxation,  he 
knew,  and  he  was  sped  ! 

Now,  whether  from  the  depth  of  his  own  need,  or 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust        227 

whether  the  spirit  of  the  master  were  hovering  over 
a  beloved  scholar  in  his  dire  extremity  —  who  shall 
say  ?  —  certain  it  was  that  the  very  tones  of  Saviolo 
were  now  recalling  to  Wyatt's  brain  a  favourite  axiom 
of  the  fence-school :  — 

"  Chi  para,  busca  .  .  .  chi  tira,  tocca !  .  .  .  He 
who  parries  but  seeks  ...  he  who  thrusts,  reaches !" 

It  was  to  the  youth  as  if  a  flame  had  been  lit  in  his 
soul.  Why  wait  in  anguish  to  parry  a  coming  secret 
thrust,  when  he  could  still  himself  strike?  Up  he 
sprang,  brain  and  eye,  wrist  and  nimble  feet,  in  mag- 
nificent concert.  To  his  dying  day,  Dick  swore  that, 
for  the  instant,  he  saw  in  the  dark,  even  to  the  dread- 
ful grin  on  the  face  opposite  to  him.  His  ear,  strained 
to  the  same  marvel  of  keenness,  caught  the  sound  of  a 
catching  breath  —  not  his  own.  Exultant,  he  thrust ; 
out  went  Saviolo 's  favourite  botta  lunga  sopramano 
with  point  reverse ! 

It  was  on  the  very  dart  of  Todescan's  stroke,  which 
was  even  then  leaping  out  like  a  bolt  from  ambush. 
Todescan's  own  pass,  —  the  fierce  jerky  binding,  the 
incredible  turn  of  the  wrist  inwards,  the  infallible 
estocade  that  was  to  have  driven  the  point  irredeem- 
ably under  the  armpit,  and  let  free  the  overweening 
soul  that  dared  oppose  him  in  earnest,  Todescan's 
own  great  thrust  —    Yes,  but  one  splinter  of  a  sec- 


228         The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust 

ond  too  late !  There  was  a  sinister  grating  of  steel 
upon  steel,  and  the  edge  of  the  menacing  blade  ghded, 
harmless,  by  Wyatt's  side.  But  the  Englishman's 
rapier,  driven  straight,  heart-high,  went  home. 
Todescan,  caught  on  the  start  of  his  own  lunge, 
actually  ran  upon  the  point. 

At  any  other  moment,  the  horrible  ease  with  which 
his  steel  traversed  living  flesh  would  have  sickened 
Dick  Wyatt.  But  there  was  nothing  now  but 
fierce  leaping  triumph  in  his  blood  —  The  great 
gaunt  figure  had  stopped  dead-short !  A  broken 
curse,  a  groan  ending  in  a  long  sigh ;  and  the  Provost 
of  Geneva  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  bewildered  London 
apprentice,  whose  bright  blade  was  now  black  to 
within  a  foot  of  the  hilt. 

"Master  Vincent  Saviolo  —  have  thanks!"  cried 
the  youth  in  his  soul,  and  waved  the  victorious 
weapon  at  the  stats.  Even  as  he  did  so,  a  drop  fall- 
ing from  it  glittered,  a  dreadful  red,  in  the  light  of  the 
quick-match.  "My  God!"  he  called  out,  upon  a 
new  thought ;  flung  the  good  sword  from  him,  and 
was  down  on  his  knees,  tearing  like  one  possessed 
at  the  last  inch  of  the  burning  rope. 

The  urgency  of  the  peril  —  for  he  had  no  mind  to 
see  the  fruits  of  his  great  combat  thrown  away  — 
lent  a  desperate  sureness  to  his  effort.     In  another 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust        229 

instant  he  had  sprung  up  again,  and  was  stamping 
the  last  spark  under  foot.  Then  he  stood  and 
breathed  deeply,  feeling  dazed,  almost  as  in  a  dream. 

Hemmed  in  by  the  rumours,  this  little  square  under 
the  bastion  was  still  wrapped  in  stillness  —  a  still- 
ness that  suddenly  grew  awful  to  Dick  as  he  thought 
of  the  dead  body.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
sped  a  soul:  in  the  cant  of  rufflers,  this  was  "his 
first  man."  Yonder  black  heap:  that  was  he  who 
had  been  Todescan  —  a  name  Dick  had  never  spoken 
but  with  bated  breath. 

The  sight  of  torches  bobbing  at  some  far  depth  of 
the  wall-lane,  the  sound  of  running  steps  and  voices 
uplifted,  startled  him  from  his  mood.  With  a  sud- 
den vividness  he  saw  his  own  peril.  To  be  found 
alone  with  the  corpse  of  the  honoured  Provost,  near 
the  tell-tale  petard  and  the  remains  of  the  quick- 
match  —  he,  a  stranger  just  arrived  in  the  city,  with- 
out a  single  friend,  without  even  speech  to  explain  or 
defend  himself  —  his  doom  as  a  spy,  traitor,  and 
murderer  would  be  trebly  sealed.  He  hastily  picked 
up  his  rapier,  and  made  a  wild-cat  spring  up  the  steps 
that  led  to  the  battlements ;  reaching  the  black  shelter 
of  the  platform  only  just  in  time  to  escape  notice. 

There,    although    prudence    urged    a    noiseless 


230         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

flight  along  the  walls  to  some  farther  quarter  of 
the  town  where  he  might  mix  with  the  throng,  he  was 
fain  to  sit  down  and  gather  strength;  for  shaking 
knees  and  labouring  heart  refused  service.  He 
dropped  on  the  sill  of  an  empty  gun-embrasure,  and 
hearkened.  The  steps  and  voices  were  drawing 
near  the  dark  spot  where  the  body  lay.  Outwards, 
beyond  the  moat,  stretched  the  fields  under  the  star- 
light. Frogs  were  croaking  with  strange  persistence 
for  the  time  of  year.  All  at  once  the  lane  below  him 
was  filled  with  new  sounds,  exclamations,  hurried 
steps,  a  clang  as  of  a  falling  pike.  Impelled  by  a 
desperate  curiosity,  he  crept  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  and  looked  down. 

Luridly  illumined  by  the  glare  of  torches,  he  could 
see,  clustered  together,  a  party  of  dishevelled,  anx- 
ious-faced burghers  —  a  score  or  so  of  them  — 
armed  with  harquebuss  or  halbert.  One  rushed, 
cursing,  from  the  petard  at  the  postern  to  the  body  of 
Todescan.  Another  was  shaking  his  fist  as  to  some 
unseen  enemy.  Dick  was  preparing  to  crawl  away 
to  some  safer  hiding-place,  when  it  was  borne  in  upon 
him,  to  his  utter  astonishment,  that  the  unknown 
slayer  of  the  Town  Provost  was  already  vindicated. 
Little  French  had  he,  true ;  but  his  wits  were  sharp- 
ened by  danger  and  deed,  and  by  his  knowledge 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         231 

of  the  truth  in  this  matter.  One,  who  seemed  to  be 
the  leader  of  the  party,  was  speaking,  emphasising 
his  words  by  vindictive  thumps  of  his  clenched  hand 
on  his  palm :  — 

"He  sent  us  to  the  Bastion  de  Rive.  .  .  .  There 
was  no  enemy  there  !  That  was  his  treachery !  — 
Todescan  has  betrayed  us,  but  God  has  avenged !" 

And  deep-mouthed  came  the  words:  "Todescan, 
the  traitor!" 

Dick  Wyatt  straightened  himself  with  a  long  sigh 
of  relief.  Yet  he  deemed  it  still  best  play  to  withdraw 
unseen  from  the  neighbourhood  of  these  hard-pressed, 
excited  men.  Stealthily  he  wiped  his  blade;  and, 
in  disgust,  flung  the  bloody  kerchief  over  the  wall 
into  the  ditch. 

Instantly  he  was  struck  by  the  singular  cessation 
of  the  obtrusive  frog-croaking.  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment, wondering.  Then,  as  though  the  throwing 
of  a  kerchief  had  been  an  expected  signal  from  the 
darkness  without,  a  muffled  call  came  up  the  wall. 

"Eh  —  sei  tu,  alia  fin  fine,  Espingola!  ...  E 
pronto?" 

At  once  one  of  these  words  evoked  the  memory 
of  old  Strongitharm :  "A  corporal  in  Piedmont,  they 
called  Espingola  .  .  ."had  said  the  veteran.  Dick 
thrust  his  head  through  the  embrasure  and  peered 


232        The  Great  Todescati's  Secret  Thrust 

into  the  moat.  Yonder,  in  sooth,  huddled  at  the 
foot  of  the  rampart  —  in  their  black  armour,  darker 
shadows  upon  the  gloom  —  lay  a  party  of  the  Sav- 
oyards. 

Boyish,  Dick  forgot  his  wise  resolution;  all 
thoughts  of  safety,  of  self-preservation  evaporated. 
He  sheathed  his  rapier  and  rushed  back  boldly  to  the 
platform's  edge. 

"Ho,  there,  my  men!"  he  shouted  in  sturdy 
English ;  "  the  enemy  is  yonder ! " 

All  torches  were  lifted,  all  heads  looked  up  in 
astonishment.  He  pointed  and  waved  vehemently, 
and  summoned  a  scrap  of  their  language  to  his 
tongue :  — 

"L'ennemi!  I'ennemi,  la!  .  .  .  Ik!" 

Rapidly  the  burghers  ran  up  and  lined  the  parapet. 
Those  outside  who  had  expected  a  secret  ally  to 
beckon  from  the  breach  were  confronted  by  defend- 
ers. Stealth  and  silence  were  of  no  further  avail  — 
the  Savoyards  upsprang.    The  harquebusade  began. 


The  story  of  the  Escalade  of  Geneva  was  soon  to  be- 
come matter  of  history.  Widespread  in  all  Protestant 
countries  was  to  be  the  bitter  tale  of  that  night-surprise 


The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust        233 

of  the  Free  City,  treacherously  planned  in  the  midst 
of  proclaimed  peace.  And  all  who  heard  of  it  knew 
how  nigh  the  vile  plan  came  to  fruition ;  how  narrow, 
for  one  panting  hour,  remained  the  margin  between 
victorious  repulse  and  annihilation;  what  nameless 
orgies  of  blood,  lust,  and  rapine  were,  by  the  Duke's 
explicit  orders,  to  follow  on  the  shout  of  "  Ville  prise  ! 
Ville  gagnde !" 

Once,  indeed,  that  cry  of  terror  was  actually  raised, 
to  strike  ice-cold  to  many  an  innocent  heart.  And  no 
doubt  it  would  have  been  justified  had  all  the  con- 
certed measures  of  assailants  without  and  of  con- 
federates within  come  to  their  expected  issue  :  among 
which  the  most  pregnant  was  the  blowing  up  of  the 
little,  forgotten  postern  under  the  Bastion  de  I'Oye ! 

But  as  yet  Dick  Wyatt  knew  naught  of  all  this. 
By  the  light  of  one  of  those  street  fires  that  had 
been  kindled,  wherever  possible,  until  the  opening  of 
the  blessed  eye  of  day,  he  was  sullenly  attending  to 
sundry  slight  wounds  that  now  had  begun  to  stiffen 
and  smart.    A  morose  depression  gathered  upon  him. 

A  hand  was  clapped  on  his  shoulder :  — 

"Why,  Dick  Wyatt  —  and  hast  also  come  to 
Geneva !" 

He  had  not  heard  the  beloved  tongue  from  a  true 
English   mouth,   these   weary  months.    His   heart 


234         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

leaped.  He  sprang  up.  Oh,  marvel.  .  .  .  No 
less  a  man  than  Master  Beckett !  Master  Beckett, 
torn  in  attire  and  powder-stained;  mocking,  yet 
with  a  tender  gleam  in  the  eye.     Their  hands  met. 

"  I  have  looked  for  thee,  Dick,  among  the  dead,  the 
maimed,  and  the  sound,  and  here  art  thou  at  last !" 

"How  now  —  yet  you  knew  me  not  here ?" 

"  Nay,  an  hour  ago  I  never  dreamt  of  Dick  Wyatt. 
But  down  yonder,  at  the  Tertasse  gate,  where  the 
Spaniard  and  the  Italian  were  made  at  last  to  choose 
between  jump  the  wall  again  or  take  our  steel,  there 
was  one  burgher  —  a  tall  one,  by  the  Mass,  but  yet 
he  owed  something  to  the  timely  help  of  my  rapier  — 
'  Gran  mercy  ! '  saith  he, '  you  English  are  rude  escri- 
meurs '  (thus  they  call  a  fencer,  Dick) ;  *  we  left  one 
on  the  Bastion  de  POye.  He  hath  little  French,  but 
he  drummed  right  heartily  on  the  black  harness  of  the 
Savoyard.'  —  'An  Englishman?'  say  I;  and,  there 
being  no  more  work  to  do,  I  looked  for  him  who  had 
little  French,  lest  he  want  succour  or  friendly  word. 
But  never  thinking  of  thee !  What  make  you  from 
Lombard  Street,  Dick  Wyatt?" 

"Ay;  and  what  make  you  in  Geneva  from  the 
Temple,  Master  Beckett?" 

The  retort  was  made  smiling.  Gone  was  melan- 
choly;   gone,  too,  was  the  rivalry  that  had  burned 


The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust         235 

sore  in  each  heart  against  the  other.  They  stood, 
eye  in  the  eye.  Presently  they  both  laughed :  the 
same  thought  was  in  their  minds. 

"So!  in  truth  they  did  speak  of  another  English- 
man," said  Dick. 

"  They  spoke,  say'st  thou  ?    Who  spoke  ?  " 

"In  Todescan's  fence-room,"  said  Wyatt  gravely. 

Master  Beckett  mused  a  moment.  "When  came 
you  to  Geneva,  friend  Dick  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yesterday,  at  nightfall." 

A  great  astonishment  writ  itself  upon  the  Templar's 
countenance. 

"Last  night !  Plague  on  thee,  Dick !"  he  went  on 
banteringly  as  he  marked  the  other's  enigmatic  smile, 
"but  thou  wast  in  monstrous  haste  !  Well  —  come. 
'Tis  fair  time  to  go  crack  a  quart  for  a  morning 
draught;  or  so  at  least  'twould  be  in  London. 
Todescan?"  he  chuckled.  "I  have  news  for  thee, 
Dick.     But  come." 

Arm  in  arm  they  made  their  way  to  the  nearest 
tavern;  and  there,  seated  at  a  retired  table,  with  a 
stoup  of  warm  wine  and  a  white  loaf  between  them, 
resumed  converse. 

On  his  peregrination,  in  pursuance  of  the  strenu- 
ous scheme  of  sword-education  suggested  by  Captain 


236         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

Strongitharm  three  months  ago  (and  how  far  it  now 
seemed !),  the  Templar  had  made  many  stages. 
The  first  had  been  at  Antwerp,  where  the  Sieur 
Gerard  Thibault  directed  a  Spanish  Academy 
of  the  highest  philosophic  flight. 

The  next  had  been  Cologne :  city  chiefly  notable, 
in  his  memory's  eye,  not  for  a  Minster  and  the  bones 
of  eleven  thousand  Virgins,  but  for  a  certain  low- 
ceiled,  stone-floored  fighting  room,  at  the  back  of 
the  Rheinthorgasse,  conducted  by  one  Heinrich-of- 
the- Great-Feet  —  a  den  which  rang  lustily  to  the 
clang  of  long  sword  and  short  and  to  raucous 
jovial  voices,  from  the  earliest  break  of  fast  to  the 
last  evening  can. 

Another  had  been  in  the  Strasburg  timberhouse 
of  Joachim,  giant  of  the  blade,  whose  method  of 
sword  converse  was  essentially  rhythmic  and  re- 
quired for  its  perfect  mastery  the  lilt  of  fife  and  tabor. 

A  fourth  was  spent  at  Mainz,  where  Eisenkopf  — 
once  Capoferro  of  Bologna  —  had  transplanted  the 
latest  fruits  of  the  southern  foyning  arts.  And  the 
last  at  Lyons:  there  the  veteran  Petit- Jean,  exile 
from  Paris,  reigned  in  provincial  prosperity  and  still 
retained  about  his  name  the  glamour  of  one  who 
had  imparted  fabulous  fencing  skill  and  judgment 
to  the  late  Henri  de  Valois. 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         237 

From  each  of  these  men  he  had  purchased  the 
secret  of  one  or  more  indefeasible  pass  (else  logic 
was  a  fool) ;  of  one  or  more  universal  parry  or 
countercheck  which  none  could  circumvent  (save, 
of  course,  by  unholy  compact  with  the  Fiend). 
And  all  this  at  the  expense  of  much  vigour  and  toil, 
and  eke  much  good  English  gold.  For,  if  invaluable 
tuition  of  this  kind  was  expensive  already  to  the 
native,  lessons  to  a  foreigner,  given  perforce  in 
strenuous  dumbshow  and  with  great  waste  of 
expletives,  commanded  fairly  enough,  in  faith,  at 
least  a  double  price.  But  Beckett  regretted  none 
of  it.  —  It  had  been  rich  food  to  his  folly. 

During  the  long  rides  from  town  to  town  he 
would  rehearse  in  his  mind  the  tale  of  his  gains  — 
even  as  a  merchant  counting  up  the  safe  delivery 
of  his  argosies :  — 

"The  pass  of  el  dagatin,  from  Thibault  —  Ah, 
Dick  Wyatt,  sweet  lad,  how  wilt  thou  stare  when 
thy  long  punta  sopramano  (in  which,  faith,  thou 
dost  excel)  finds  vacancy  .  .  .  the  open  door  .  .  . 
thin  air  .  .  .  and  then :  one-two  and  the  back  edge 
of  my  rapier  next  on  the  nape  of  thy  neck !  Rare  ! 
'Twill  exactly  suit  thy  long  punta.  By  my  hilts, 
I'll  retain  it  for  thee. 

.  .  .  "And  'twill  be  feast  to  see  the  lad  face  the 


238         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

Ochsensiiern  and  Llnksaisenport  of  Maistre  Joachim, 
yet  never  divine  the  hook  till  the  bait  is  gulped.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "Ha!  the  punta  d'Alicormo  —  no  more  to 
be  parried  than  a  bolt  from  the  crossbow !  .  .  . 
Yes,  that  was  full  worth  the  ringing  pieces  that  went 
from  mine  into  the  pouch  of  that  brisk  knave  of 
Mainz.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "But,  a  plague  on't,  that  the  most  conclusive 
of  all  —  la  holte  de  Nevers,  Petit- Jean's  most  precious 
secret  thrust  and  the  dearest  to  purchase,  only  to  be 
imparted  on  oath  of  secrecy  lest  it  should  be  used 
against  its  father  —  should  be  of  no  avail  in  courteous 
bout !  " 

Never  a  night  had  passed  since  the  wandering 
scholar's  departure  from  Lyons,  that,  in  the  solitude 
of  his  inn  chamber,  this  deadly  botte  de  Nevers  — 
the  nimble  return  of  point  between  the  brows, 
sudden  death-bolt  from  the  blue  —  had  not  been 
practised  for  an  hour  against  a  chalk  mark  on 
the  panel.  A  foyne,  already  legendary  among 
swordsmen,  one  which  none  who  had  ever  faced 
the  ferocious  Nevers  ever  lived  to  learn  for  them- 
selves :  Beckett  had  it  in  his  hands,  in  full  mastery 
.  .  .  and  yet  it  could  not  be  tried  in  courtesy,  for  it 
forgave  not !  It  was  a  foyne  to  dream  of  —  but 
not  one  to  use  against   friend  Wyatt.  .  .  .     No,  a 


The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust         239 

plague  on  it  ...  !  In  this  land  of  aliens,  he 
thought  on  his  rival  countryman  with  almost  a 
touch   of   tenderness. 

And  thus  Beckett,  musing  along  foreign  roads 
upon  that  contest  which  was  to  take  place  next 
year  on  the  'Friars'  scaffold,  under  her  Grace's 
own  eyes,  would  fall  (with  heaven  knows  what 
freaks  of  pronunciation  over  the  fantastic  jargon) 
to  the  tale  of  his  other  purchases  in  the  fencing 
market,  all  of  which,  not  being  wipes  or  pokes  at  the 
face,  could  and  should  be  served  up  as  nuts  for 
Master  Dick  Wyatt's  skill  to  crack :  Item,  Ochsen- 
stiern;  item,  Botta  di  Pigliajilo  .  .  . ;  item,  Volta 
di  Cinghiare;  item,  Estramasson  de  Mancheite; 
item,  the  Passepied  de  Demi  volte;  item  —  No, 
that  was  the  last !  Do  what  he  would  he  could  not 
remember  the  sequence  of  steps  and  pauses  and 
feints  which  made  (according  to  Capoferro)  of  the 
divine  imbrochintre  data  becca  the  most  absolutely- 
not-to-be-parried  thrust  at  a  man's  doublet! 

"'Twas  venturesome  of  thee,  Dick,  to  come  seek 
knowledge  so  far,"  quoth  Beckett. 

"You  came  as  far,  methinks,"  was  the  good- 
humoured  retort.  Dick  Wyatt  had  never  felt  him- 
self a  match  for  his  rival  in  words.     But  at  this  game 


240         The  Great  TodescarCs  Secret  Thrust 

of  friendly  mockery  he  knew  that  he  held  to-day  the 
highest  card  in  reserve. 

"Ay,  so,"  said  the  Templar  lightly.  "But  with 
me  the  enterprise  was  less.  I  have  a  gift  of  tongues 
—  and  friends  in  the  university.  'Twas  easy. 
But  since  start  you  did,  'twas  a  fault  not  to  have 
started  sooner  —  I  do  assure  you,"  he  added  with 
meaning.  "I  left  on  this  quest  it  comes  nigh  three 
months  since." 

And  then,  with  gusto,  did  he  relate  the  story  of  his 
long  pilgrimage  of  fence.  Marvellous  to  Dick's  hear- 
ing were  the  names  falling  sonorously  from  his  tongue ; 
every  master  mentioned  by  Captain  Strongitharm,  and 
some  others  to  boot.  But  it  was  anent  his  stay  in  this 
very  city  that  he  waxed  most  eloquent.  Todescan, 
traitor  or  no,  had  proved,  beyond  compare,  the  arch- 
master,  the  demigod  of  the  blade  ! 

"Ay,  Dick,  'twas  pity  thou  camest  not  sooner! 
Canst  scarce,  now,  learn  the  thunderbolt  of  Todes- 
can," Master  Beckett  waxed  enthusiastic,  "this  in- 
visible, sudden  death  that  laughs  at  plate  or  gorget ! 
Canst,  indeed,  never  learn  it  —  save,  of  course,  from 
me,  when  the  time  is  ripe." 

"Save  from  you,  Master  Beckett?" 

"Yes,  Diccon,  save  from  me.  The  secret  died  to- 
night :  Todescan  was  killed  on  the  walls !" 


The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust         241 

Master  Beckett,  not  unnaturally,  attributed  to  dis- 
appointment the  silence  in  which  his  rival  received 
the  news. 

Dick  Wyatt  was  reflectively  rubbing  his  chin. 
For  one  brief  instant  he  had  burned  to  cap,  by  an 
obvious,  crushing  retort,  his  friend's  ill-concealed 
exultation.  But  he  now  resolutely  folded  his  lips 
upon  his  secret,  telling  himself  that,  in  Beckett's  own 
phrase,  the  time  was  not  yet  ripe.  Since  they  were  yet 
to  meet  in  friendly  contest  of  skill,  he  would  reserve 
the  story  of  the  momentous  duel  until  the  moment 
of  victory.  For,  of  a  surety,  on  the  day  of  trial  he 
would  meet  again  this  "thunderbolt"  of  Todescan; 
and  how  could  he  doubt  now  that  he  must  prove 
victorious  on  the  lesser  as  on  the  greater  issue? 

Assuming  all  the  air  of  one  who  feels  he  has  been 
checkmated,  he  changed  the  drift  of  the  talk. 

VI 

Some  three  months  later,  on  the  very  morning  of 
their  return  to  London,  Dick  and  Master  Beckett 
together  sought  the  Bolt-in-Tun  for  their  nooning- 
cup.  They  passed  through  its  portals  —  this  time, 
with  never  one  of  your  elaborate  tricks  of  courtesy 
as  to  precedence,  but  the  taller  with  his  arm  on  the 
other's  shoulder  —  and  they  found  the  old  place 


242         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

humming,  even  as  on  the  day  when  last  they  had  seen 
it,  with  the  talk  of  a  death.  But  a  death  of  far  other 
importance  even  than  that  of  Master  Vincent.  Eng- 
land's great  Queen  had  passed  away:  ill  filled  was 
her  place  by  a  little  ungainly  Scot. 

The  comrades  were  greeted  with  a  shout.  'Twas 
six  months  since  they  had  been  seen  in  Ludgate. 
Queries  assailed  them  on  every  side;  but  by  tacit 
agreement  they  kept  their  own  counsel.  True  gen- 
tlemen, whose  prowess  was  so  soon  to  be  tested  in 
loyal  public  contest,  they  had  no  mind  for  boasting 
of  knowledge  lately  acquired,  after  the  fashion  of  your 
tavern-haunting  gull.  But  at  length  so  much  leaked 
out :  they  had  been  preparing,  each  after  his  own 
fancy,  for  the  great  day  of  my  Lord  of  Pembroke's 
prize-playing  in  honour  of  Saviolo's  memory. 

It  was  Beckett  who  dropped  the  information  —  a 
trifle  loftily,  perhaps,  from  the  height  of  his  travelled 
experience.  He  thought  to  impress  his  stay-at- 
home  friends.  The  announcement  was  met,  first, 
by  silence,  in  which  eyebrows  were  raised  and  glances 
exchanged ;  then  out  broke  a  hubbub  —  banter, 
mockery,  condolence.  Poor  lads !  These  long  six 
months  preparing !  And  here  was  one  who  knew, 
from  knowledge  certain,  that  public  prize-playing 
would  never  more  be  seen  in  merry  England ! 


The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust         243 

The  one  who  knew  (from  Whitehall,  he)  spake: 
His  new  Majesty  loathed  swordsmen's  shows,  and 
forbade  them.  The  King  could  not  look  on  a  blade 
without  shudder.  Nay,  if  he  had  to  knight  a  man, 
he  must  needs  avert  his  eyes  so  doing.  .  .  . 

Dick  and  the  Templar  stared  at  each  other.  Were 
the  friendly  rivals  glad  or  sorry  ?  They  scarce  knew. 
Dick  took  a  deep  breath. 

And  now,  from  the  head  of  the  table  —  his  place 
by  rights  it  seemed  to  have  become  —  up  spoke  Cap- 
tain Strongitharm.  From  the  moment  he  had  recog- 
nised the  young  men,  he  had  remained  watching  and 
listening  in  unwonted  silence.  His  single  eye  was 
more  commanding  than  ever.  He  tapped  the  table 
with  his  two  fingers,  and  there  fell  a  stillness  in  the 
room.  He  spoke  of  rulers  and  of  her  who  was  gone ; 
of  Mary  of  Scotland,  and  of  sundry  instances  he  had 
known,  at  home  and  abroad,  of  men  (like  the  new 
King  James,  her  son)  frightened  for  life  before  their 
birth  by  a  woman's  terror.  Then,  from  Jamie's 
horror  of  a  drawn  blade,  came  he  to  talk  of  fight  and 
prize-playing  and  the  like,  thence  to  his  darling 
theme :  the  great  masters  of  the  sword,  alive  or 
dead. 

"Ay,  young  masters,  you  may  have  had  your 
snippets  of  travel ;  but  had  ye  known  the  tall  men,  the 


244         The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust 

great  days !  .  .  .  There  was  Cavalcabo,  mark  you, 
the  mighty  Italian ;  but  he  is  dust.  Now,  the  near- 
est to  him  in  subtility  was  Eisenkopf  (of  Mainz,  in 
the  Palatinate).  He,  for  all  his  High  Dutch  name, 
was  from  the  south  also.  Capoferro  was  he.  Now, 
this  Eisenkopf  had  a  certain  thrust  he  called  '  Piglia- 
filo.'" 

"I  know  the  trick,"  said  Master  Beckett  over  his 
can. 

Captain  Strongitharm  raised  an  eyebrow. 

"Yet  to  my  mind,"  he  went  on  unheedingly, 
"  ne'er  so  great  a  man  at  the  rapier  —  that  is,  for  the 
single  duello  —  as  Petit- Jean,  in  Paris.  He  it  was 
devised  the  'Botte  de  Nevers.'" 

"Ay,"  from  Beckett  again.  "Petty  John  taught 
it  well.     But  he  teaches  at  Lyons  now." 

The  Captain's  eye  rolled  a  little  redly  upon  the  fair, 
cool  youth.  It  was  scarce  wholesome  for  one  of 
so  few  years  to  know  so  much,  to  be  so  sure  of  speech. 
The  boy  must  be  set  down. 

"Ha  !  but  only  when  a  man  has  measured  blades 
with  Thibault  of  Antwerp  —  Thibault,  the  heritor 
of  Carranza's  own  science,  all  by  mathematical  logic, 
squares,  and  tangents  to  the  circumference"  —  he 
kept  his  eye  severely  upon  the  Templar,  as  the  young 
man  showed  signs  of  opening  his  mouth  again  —  "or 


The  Great  Todescan's  Secret  Thrust         245 

eke  with  Meister  Joachim  of  Strasburg-on-the-Rhine. 
...  I  mind  me  of  a  plaguy  round-cut  he  would 
engineer  on  your  extended  arm,  that  he  had  chris- 
tened 'Estramasson  de  Manchette.'  It  would  do 
for  you,  by  neat  rapier-slicing,  what  the  Spanish 
dog's  halbert  did  for  this  hand,  at  the  palisado  of 
Pamplona." 

"Saving  your  experience,  good  captain,"  inter- 
rupted Beckett  demurely,  "you  mistake:  'Estra- 
masson'  is  the  Sieur  Thibault's  own  device,  by  rule 
geometrical.  I  have  practised  both  with  him  and 
with  Master  Joachim." 

The  veteran's  gathering  testiness  exploded.  He 
rapped  out  a  parcel  of  rare  outlandish  oaths,  and 
spluttered  the  name  of  Todescan:  Todescan,  to 
his  mind  the  very  angel  —  the  very  devil  —  of  the 
sword.  Who  had  not  faced  Todescan  of  Geneva 
knew  naught  of  finality  in  fencing.  Todescan's 
noted  thrust  — 

And  here,  at  last,  was  Master  Beckett's  moment 
to  insert  (with  pardonable  pride)  the  story  of  his  ac- 
quired gains  in  far  Geneva.  He  parted  his  lips  to 
speak,  his  brown  eyes  sparkling,  his  frank  smile 
flashing. 

But,  subtly,  in  a  delicate,  insinuating  voice  that 
dropped  into  the  brief  moment  of  silence  allowed 


246         The  Great  Todescan^s  Secret  Thrust 

by  Captain  Strongitharm's  pause  for  breath,  Dick 
Wyatt  forestalled  him :  — 

"Todescan,  ay  ...  of  Geneva.  And  his  noted 
thrust,  at  the  armpit,  on  a  binding  of  the  blade,  thus." 
He  made  a  spiral  movement  with  his  extended  wrist, 
and  glanced  for  one  instant  slily  at  Beckett's  amazed 
face.  "I  met  that  thrust  ...  ay.  Captain  Strong- 
itharm,  with  Master  Vincent's  own  punta  river sa.^^ 

There  was  a  murmur  of  amazement.  But  some- 
thing portentous,  something  at  once  secret  and 
triumphant  about  the  speaker,  held  his  audience, 
even  the  captain  of  many  tales,  hanging  upon  the 
coming  phrase.    It  came  simply :  — 

"Todescan  and  I  were  alone  together  one  night, 
under  the  stars  ...  a  memorable  night  for  Geneva." 

Beckett  sprang  to  his  feet,  to  bend  eagerly  across 
the  table.  For  a  moment  Dick  Wyatt  met  his  com- 
rade's glance;  then  he  modestly  dropped  his  own, 
and,  in  that  gentle  voice  of  his,  said :  — 

"'Twas  then  I  killed  him." 


POMONA 


VI 

POMONA 

The  orchard  was  on  a  hill,  the  farmhouse  lay  at 
the  foot.  There  was  a  long  field,  in  spring  a  palace 
of  cowslips,  between  the  orchard  and  the  house. 

This  September  dawn  Pomona  came  through  it 
and  left  a  dark  track  of  green  along  the  dew-be- 
pearled  grass.  Little  swathes  of  mist  hung  over  the 
cowslip  field,  but  up  in  the  orchard  the  air  was 
already  clear.  It  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the 
ripe  fruit,  and  the  tart,  clean  autumn  pungency  left 
by  the  light  frost. 

Pomona  shifted  the  empty  basket  that  she  had 
borne  on  her  head  to  the  ground  and  began  to  fill 
it  with  rosy-cheeked  apples.  Some  she  shook  from 
the  laden  boughs,  some  she  picked  up  from  the 
sward  where  they  had  fallen  from  the  tree ;  but  she 
chose  only  the  best  and  ripest. 

A  shaft  of  sunlight  broke  over  the  purple  hills. 

It  shone  on  her  ruddy  hair  and  on  her  smooth  cheek. 

She   straightened   herself   to   look   out   across   the 

249 


250  Pomona 

valley  at  the  eastern  sky :  all  sights  of  Nature  were 
beautiful  to  her  and  gave  her  a  joy  that,  yet,  she 
had  never  learned  to  put  into  words,  hardly  into 
thoughts.  Now,  as  she  stood  gazing,  someone  saun- 
tered along  the  road  that  skirted  the  orchard,  and 
catching  sight  of  her,  halted  and  became  lost  in  con- 
templation of  her,  even  as  she  of  the  sunrise  pageant. 

As  evidently  as  Pomona  in  her  homespun  skirt 
and  bodice  belonged  to  the  farmhouse,  so  did  he 
to  the  great  castle  near  by.  The  gentleman  had 
made  as  elaborate  a  toilet  for  his  early  walk  as  if 
he  had  been  bound  for  St.  James's.  His  riding-coat 
was  of  delicate  hue,  and  laces  fluttered  at  his  wrists 
and  throat.  His  black  lovelocks  hung  carefully 
combed  on  either  shoulder  from  under  his  beplumed 
hat.  A  rapier  swung  at  his  side  and,  as  he  stood, 
he  flicked  at  it  with  the  glove  in  his  bare  hand.  He 
had  a  long,  pale  face  and  long  eyes  with  drooping 
lids  and  haughty  eyebrows ;  a  small,  upturned  mous- 
tache gave  a  tilt  of  mockery  to  grave  lips.  He 
looked  very  young,  and  yet  so  sedate  and  self-pos- 
sessed and  scornful  that  he  might  have  known  the 
emptiness  of  the  world  a  hundred  years. 

Pomona  turned  with  a  start,  feeling  herself 
watched.  She  gazed  for  a  moment  in  surprise,  and 
a  deep  blush  rose  in  her  cheeks ;  then,  still  staring, 


Pomona  251 

she  made  a  slow  country  curtsey.  Off  went  the 
befeathered  hat ;  the  gentleman  returned  her  salu- 
tation by  a  profound  bow.  Then  he  leaped  the 
little  ditch  into  the  orchard  and  threaded  his  way 
through  the  trees  towards  her.  She  watched  him 
come ;  her  great  eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  a  deer, 
as  shy,  as  innocent. 

"  Good  morrow,  sir,"  said  she,  with  another 
curtsey,  and  then  corrected  herself  quickly,  "good 
morrow,  my  lord."  For,  if  he  came  from  the 
Castle,  he  was  surely  a  lord. 

"Good  morrow,  madam,"  returned  he  pleasantly. 
His  glance  appraised  her  with  open  admiration. 

What  a  glorious  creature !  What  amber  and 
red  on  those  smooth  cheeks;  what  ruddy  radiance 
in  that  sun-illumined  hair !  What  a  column  of  a 
throat,  and  how  white  the  skin  where  the  coarse 
kerchief  was  parted  above  the  laced  bodice !  What 
lines  of  bust  and  hip,  of  arm  and  wrist ;  generous 
but  perfect !  A  goddess !  He  glanced  at  the 
strong,  sunburnt  hands;  they  were  ringless.  Un- 
owned then,  as  yet,  this  superb  nymph. 

His  long  eyes  moved  at  their  pleasure;  and  she 
stood  waiting  in  repose,  though  the  colour  came 
and  went  richly  on  her  rich  cheek.  Then  he 
bowed  again,  the  hat  clasped  to  his  bosom. 


252  Pomona 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  and  replaced  his  beaver 
with  a  turn  of  the  wrist  that  set  all  the  grey  and 
white  plumes  rippling  round  the  crown. 

"Sir?"  she  queried,  startled,  and  on  her  second 
thought,  "my  lord?" 

At  this  he  broke  into  a  smile.  When  he  smiled,  his 
haughty  face  gained  a  rare  sweetness. 

"Thank  you  for  rising  thus  early  and  coming 
into  the  orchard  and  standing  in  the  sun-rays  and 
being,  my  maid,  so  beautiful.  I  little  thought  to 
find  so  fair  a  vision.  'Twill  be  a  sweet  one  to  carry 
forth  with  me  ...  if  it  be  the  last  on  earth." 

Her  wits  were  never  quick  to  work.  She  went  her 
country  way  as  a  rule  as  straight  and  sweetly  and 
unthinkingly  as  the  lilies  grow.  To  question  why 
a  noble  visitor  at  the  Castle  —  and  a  visitor  it  must 
be,  since  his  countenance  was  unfamiliar  —  should 
walk  forth  at  the  dawn  and  speak  as  if  this  morn- 
ing saunter  were  to  death,  never  entered  her  head. 

She  stammered:  "Oh,  sir!"  to  his  compliment, 
and  paused,  her  lip  quivering  over  the  inarticulate 
sense  of  her  own  awkwardness. 

"Have  you  been  gathering  apples?"  quoth  he, 
still  smiling  on  her. 

"Ay,  sir,"  she  said,  "to  make  preserve  withal"; 
and  faltered  yet  again,  "my  lord." 


Pomona  253 

"Ay,"  approved  he.  "It  has  a  fair  sound  in 
your  mouth.  Would  I  were  your  lord !  What  is 
your  name?" 

She  told  him:  "Pomona."  Whereat  he  laughed, 
and  repeated  it,  as  if  he  liked  the  sound.  Then  he 
looked  at  the  east,  and  behold  !  the  sun  had  risen,  a 
full  ball  of  crimson  in  a  swimming  sea  of  rose.  The 
light  glimmered  upon  his  pale  cheek  and  on  the  fine 
laces  of  his  shirt,  redly  as  if  with  stains  of  new 
blood. 

"I  must  hence,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had  a 
stern,  far-away  sound.  "Farewell,  Pomona!  Wilt 
thou  not  wish  me  well?" 

"My  lord?" 

"Wilt  thou  not?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  my  lord,  I  do."  And  she  was 
moved  on  a  sudden,  she  knew  not  why,  and  the 
tears  gathered  like  a  mist  in  her  eyes.  "With  all 
my  heart,"  she  said. 

He  made  her  a  final  bow,  bending  till  his  curls  fell 
over  his  face. 

"I  thank  you." 

She  watched  him  walk  away  from  her  (in  and  out 
the  apple  trees)  with  his  careless  stride ;  then  leap 
the  little  ditch  again ;  and  so  on  down  the  road. 

And  when  he  was  lost  to  her  sight,  she  still  stood 


254  Pomona 

looking  at  the  point  where  the  way  dipped  and 
vanished  and  she  had  seen  the  last  flutter  of  the  grey 
feathers. 

After  a  while  she  drew  a  long  sigh  and  passed  her 
hands  over  her  eyes,  as  if  she  were  awakening  from 
a  dream.  Then  she  began  mechanically  to  fill  her 
basket  once  more.  All  the  ruddiness  faded  from 
the  sky.  The  sun  swam  up  into  the  blue,  and  a 
white  brilliance  laid  hold  of  the  dewy  valley.  Deli- 
cate gossamer  threads  floated  high  above  the  apple 
trees,  against  a  vault  of  ever  deeper  blue.  Some- 
where from  the  hidden  folds  of  the  land  a  church 
bell  began  to  chime.  Then  all  at  once  Pomona 
dropped  her  basket  and,  while  the  apples  rolled, 
yellow,  green,  and  red,  on  every  side,  she  set  off 
running  in  the  direction  the  gentleman  had  taken. 

Why  she  ran,  she  knew  not,  but  something  drove 
her  with  a  mighty  urgency.  Her  heart  beat  thickly, 
and  her  breath  came  short,  though  as  a  rule  there 
was  no  maid  in  the  countryside  that  could  run  as 
she.  When  she  came  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  she 
paused  and,  there,  by  the  bramble  brake  where  the 
firwood  began,  she  saw,  lying  on  the  lip  of  the  baby 
stream,  a  gauntleted  grey  glove.  She  turned  into 
the  wood. 

The  pine  needles  were  soft  under  her  feet.    The 


Pomona  255 

pine  stems  grew  like  the  pillars  of  a  church  aisle  and 
the  air  was  sweeter  with  their  fragrance  than  any 
incense  that  was  ever  burned. 

And  after  but  a  little  way,  where  the  forest  aisle 
widened  into  a  glade,  she  came  on  the  grand  riding- 
coat  tossed  in  a  heap ;  across  it  was  flung  an  empty 
scabbard.  And  beyond,  outstretched  at  the  foot  of 
a  tree  — !  Pomona  stopped  short.  Now  she  knew 
why  she  had  had  to  run  so  fast ! 

He  lay  as  if  asleep,  his  head  pillowed  upon  a 
branching  root ;  but  it  was  no  slumber  that  held  him. 
His  features,  whiter  than  ivory,  were  strangely  sharp- 
ened and  aged,  blue  shadows  were  about  nostrils 
and  mouth ;  the  parted  lips  under  the  mocking  mous- 
tache were  set  in  a  terrible  gravity ;  they  were  purple, 
like  dead  red  roses.  Between  the  long,  half-open 
lids  the  eyeballs  shone  silver.  It  was  not  now  God's 
lovely  sunrise  that  stained  the  white  cambric  of  his 
shirt.  From  where  it  had  escaped  from  his  relaxed 
hand  a  long,  keen-bladed  sword  gleamed  among  the 
pine  needles. 

Pomona  knelt  down.  She  parted  the  ruffled 
shirt  with  a  steady  hand ;  his  heart  still  beat ;  but 
below  it  was  a  wound  that  might  well  cause  death. 
She  sat  back  on  her  heels  and  thought.  She  could 
not  leave  him  to  call  for  help,  for  he  might  die  alone ; 


256  Pomona 

neither  could  she  sit  useless  beside  him  and  watch 
him  go.  She  took  her  resolution  quickly.  She  rose, 
then  bending,  she  braced  herself  and  gathered  him 
into  her  arms  as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  He  was 
no  taller  than  she,  and  slight  and  lean  of  build.  She 
was  used  to  burdens;  but  she  had  not  thought  to 
find  him  so  heavy.  She  staggered  and  shifted  him 
for  an  easier  grip ;  and  then,  as  his  pallid  head  lay 
loose  and  languid  against  her  shoulder,  the  half -open 
eyelids  fluttered,  the  upturned  eyes  rolled  and  fixed 
themselves.  He  looked  at  her;  dark,  dark  as  eter- 
nity was  his  gaze.  She  bent  her  head  —  his  lips 
were  moving. 

"Pomona!" 

It  was  the  merest  breath  ;  but  she  knew  it  was  her 
name  as  surely  as  if  it  had  been  shouted  to  her. 
Nearer  she  bent  to  him;  a  flicker  as  of  a  smile 
came  upon  those  purple-tinted  lips. 

"Kiss  me,  Pomona !" 

She  kissed  him  and  thought  she  drew  from  his 
cold  mouth  the  last  sigh.  But  now  she  was  strong. 
She  could  have  gone  to  the  end  of  the  earth  with  this 
burden  in  her  arms. 

His  black  hair,  dank  and  all  uncurled,  fell  over  her 
bare  arm.  With  the  movement  his  wound  opened 
afresh,  and,  as  she  pressed  him  against  her  she  felt 


Pomona  257 

his  blood  soak  through  her  bodice  to  the  skin.  Then 
her  soul  yearned  over  him  with  an  indescribable, 
inarticulate  passion  of  desire  —  to  help  him,  to  heal 
him !  If  she  could  have  given  her  own  blood  to  save 
him,  she  would  have  given  it  with  the  joy  with  which 
a  mother  gives  life  to  the  babe  at  her  breast. 

Pomona  was  mistress  of  herself  and  of  her  farm, 
and  lived  alone  with  her  servants.  Though  she 
was  a  firm  ruler,  these  latter  considered  her  soft  on 
certain  points.  They  had  known  her,  before  this, 
carry  home  a  calf  that  had  staked  itself,  a  mongrel 
cur  half  drowned.  But  a  murdered  gentleman,  — 
that  was  beyond  everything ! 

"Heavens  ha'  mercy,  mistress,"  cried  Sue,  rising 
to  the  occasion,  while  the  others  gaped  and  clapped 
their  hands  and  whispered  together.  "Shall  I 
fetch  old  Mall  to  help  you  lay  him  out?" 

"Fool!"  panted  Pomona,  "bring  me  the  Nantes 
brandy." 

Earl  Blantyre  awoke  from  a  succession  of  dreams, 
in  which  he  had  had  most  varied  and  curious  ex- 
periences ;  known  strange  horrors  and  strange  sweet- 
nesses ;  flown  to  more  aerial  heights  than  any  bird,  and 
sunk  to  deeper  depth  than  the  sea  could  hold ;  fought 
unending  combats ;  and  lain  at  peace  in  tender  arms. 


258  Pomona 

He  awoke.  His  eyelids  were  heavy.  His  hand 
had  grown  so  weighty  that  it  was  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  lift  it.  And  yet,  as  he  held  it  up,  he 
hardly  knew  it  for  his  own ;  'twas  a  skeleton  thing. 
There  was  a  sound  in  his  ears  which,  dimly  he  recog- 
nised, had  woven  into  most  of  his  dreams  these  days, 
a  whirring,  soothing  sound  like  the  ceaseless  beating 
of  moths'  wings.  As  he  breathed  deeply  and  with 
delicious  ease,  there  was  a  fragrance  of  herbs  in  his 
nostrils.     A  tag  of  poetry  floated  into  his  mind :  — 

I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows. 

He  turned  his  head  and  went  to  sleep  again,  and 
dreamt  not  at  all. 

Pomona  lighted  the  lamp  and,  shading  it  with 
her  hand,  came  with  soft  tread  into  the  guest- 
chamber.  He  was  still  asleep.  She  set  down  the 
light,  mended  the  fire  with  another  log,  peeped  into 
the  pan  of  broth  simmering  on  the  hob,  and  then  sat 
to  her  spinning-wheel  once  more.  Suddenly  the 
wool  snapped ;  she  started  to  find  that  he  was  hold- 
ing back  the  curtain  with  a  finger  and  thumb  and 
had  turned  his  head  on  the  pillow  to  watch  her ;  his 
eyes  gleamed  in  the  firelight.  She  rose  and  came 
to  him  quickly. 

"So  you  were  spinning,"  he  said.    His  voice  was 


Pomona  259 

very  weak,  but  how  different  from  those  tones  of 
dreadful  clearness,  of  hoarse  muttering,  with  which 
she  had  been  so  sadly  familiar  ! 

Pomona  knelt  beside  him  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
forehead,  then  on  his  wrist. 

''Thank  God  !"  she  said. 

"By  all  means,"  he  answered,  peering  at  her 
amusedly.     "Natheless,  why?" 

"Nay,  you  must  not  speak,"  she  bade  him,  and 
rose  to  pour  the  soup  into  a  bowl. 

He  watched  her  while  she  stirred  and  tasted  and 
added  salt.  He  was  smiling.  When  she  lifted  him, 
pillows  and  all,  propped  against  her  strong  arm, 
and  held  the  bowl  to  his  lips  at  a  compelling  angle, 
he  laughed  outright.  It  was  rather  a  feeble  thing 
in  the  way  of  laughs,  but  to  Pomona  it  was  as  won- 
derful and  beautiful  an  achievement  as  a  child's  first 
word  in  the  mother's  ear. 

"  Drink,"  she  said  firmly,  while  her  heart  throbbed 
in  joy. 

"Now  you  must  sleep,"  she  added,  as  she  set- 
tled him  with  extraordinary  art.  But  sleep  was  far 
away  from  those  curious  wandering  eyes. 

"Bring  the  light  closer  and  come  to  the  bed 
again." 

His  voice  had  gained  strength  from  Pomona's 


26o  Pomona 

fine  broth,  and  it  rang  in  command.  Without 
another  word  she  obeyed  him.  As  she  sat  down  on 
the  little  oaken  stool,  where  he  could  see  her,  the 
light  fell  on  her  face ;  and  from  behind  her  the  fire 
shone  ruddily  in  her  crown  of  hair. 

"I  remember  you  now,"  said  he,  lifting  himself 
on  his  elbow.  "You  stood  in  the  sunrise  gathering 
apples  for  preserve;  you  are  the  nymph  of  the 
orchard." 

He  fell  back  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "And 
your  name  is  Pomona,"  said  he. 

The  girl,  her  capable  work-marked  hands  lying 
folded  on  her  knee,  sat  in  absolute  stillness ;  but  her 
heart  was  beating  stormily  under  the  folds  of  her 
kerchief. 

The  sick  man's  beard  had  grown,  close  and  fine, 
round  chin  and  cheeks  during  these  long  dreams  of 
his.  His  hair  lay  in  a  mass  on  one  shoulder;  it 
had  been  carefully  tied  back  with  a  riband ;  and  in 
all  that  black  setting  the  pallor  of  his  countenance 
seemed  deathlike.  Yet  she  knew  that  he  was  saved. 
He  lay  awhile,  gazing  at  the  beflowered  ceiling  of 
the  great  four-post  bed ;  and  by  and  by  his  voice 
came  sighing  — 

"And  after  that,  what  hap  befell  me?  Help  me 
to  remember." 


Pomona  261 

"I  found  you  in  the  wood,"  said  she  slowly. 
"You  were  lying  wounded." 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  sharp  cry. 

"Enough!    I  mind  me  now.    Was  I  alone?" 

"Quite  alone,  my  lord." 

"And  my  sword?" 

There  was  a  current  of  evil  eagerness  running 
through  the  feeble  voice. 

"Your  sword,  my  lord?" 

"  Pshaw !  was  it  clean,  child  ?  Bore  it  no  sign 
upon  the  blade?" 

"There  was  blood  on  it,"  said  Pomona  gravely, 
"to  a  third  of  the  length." 

The  duellist  gave  a  sigh. 

"That  is  well,"  said  he,  and  fell  once  more  into 
silence,  striving  to  knit  present  and  past  in  his  mind. 

After  a  spell  he  shifted  himself  on  his  pillows  so 
that  he  again  looked  on  her. 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  round  the  dark  panelling, 
on  the  polished  surface  of  which  the  firelight  gleamed 
like  rosy  flowers.  He  touched  the  coarse  sheet,  the 
patchwork  quilt,  then  lifted  the  sleeve  of  the  home- 
spun shirt  that  covered  his  thin  arm,  and  gazed 
inquiringly  from  it  to  the  quiet  woman. 

"How  do  I  come  here?  Where  am  I?"  queried 
he  imperiously. 


262  Pomona 

"I  brought  you;  you  are  in  my  house,"  she  an- 
swered him. 

"You  brought  me?" 

"Ay,  my  lord." 

"You  found  me  wounded,"  he  puzzled,  drawing 
his  haughty  brows  together,  "and  you  brought  me 
here  to  your  house ?    How?" 

"I  carried  you,"  said  Pomona. 

"You  carried  me!" 

The  statement  was  so  amazing,  and  Lord  Blan- 
tyre's  wits  were  still  so  weakened,  that  he  turned 
giddy  and  was  fain  to  close  his  eyes  and  allow  the 
old  vagueness  to  cradle  him  again  for  a  few  minutes. 

Pomona  prayed  that  he  might  be  sleeping ;  but,  as 
she  was  stealthily  rising  from  his  bedside,  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  held  her  with  them. 

"You  carried  me,  you  brought  me  to  your  own 
house?    Why?" 

"I  wanted  to  nurse  you,"  said  poor  Pomona. 

She  knew  no  artifice  whereby  she  could  answer, 
yet  conceal  the  truth.  But  it  was  as  if  her  heart 
were  being  torn  from  her  bit  by  bit. 

His  eyes,  hard  and  curious,  softened;  so  did  the 
imperious  voice. 

"How  did  you  keep  them  out?" 

"Keep  them  out?" 


Pomona  263 

She  was  beautiful,  but  she  was  dull. 

"My  kinsfolk,  from  the  Castle." 

Pomona  stood  like  a  child  caught  in  grave  fault. 

"They  do  not  know,"  she  answered  at  last. 

It  was  his  turn  to  ejaculate  in  amazement.  "Not 
know !" 

"I  did  not  want  them,"  said  she  then,  doggedly. 
"  I  did  not  want  any  fine  ladies  about,  nor  physicians 
with  their  lancets.  When  my  father  was  cut  with 
the  scythe,  they  sent  a  leech  from  the  Castle  who 
blooded  him,  and  he  died.  I  did  not  want  you  to 
die." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  almost  in  a  whisper, 
then  she  waited  breathlessly.  There  came  a  low 
sound  from  the  pillows.  His  laugh,  that  had  been 
music  to  her  a  minute  ago,  now  stabbed  her  to  the 
heart.  She  turned,  the  blood  flashing  into  her 
cheeks ;  yet  his  face  grew  quickly  grave ;  he  spoke, 
his  voice  was  kind. 

"Stay.  I  want  to  understand.  You  carried  me, 
all  by  yourself,  from  the  wood;  is  it  so?" 

"Ay." 

"And  no  one  knows  where  I  am,  or  that  you  ' 
found  me?" 

"No.  I  went  down  to  the  wood  again  and  brought 
back  your  coat  and  your  sword  and  scabbard  and 


264  Pomona 

your  glove.  I  forbade  my  people  to  speak.  None 
of  the  great  folk  know  that  you  are  here." 

"And  you  nursed  me?" 

"Ay." 

"Was  I  long  ill?" 

"Foiu1;een  days." 

"I  have  been  near  death,  have  I  not?" 

"You  have,  indeed." 

"  And  you  nursed  me  ? "  he  repeated  again.  "How 
did  you  learn  such  science?" 

"My  lord,  I  have  loved  and  cared  for  the  dumb 
things  all  my  life.  There  was  the  calf  that  was 
staked  — "    She  stopped ;  that  laugh  was  torture. 

"Go  on,  Pomona!" 

"I  bathed  your  wound  in  cold  water  over  and 
over  till  the  bleeding  stopped ;  and  then,  when  the 
fever  came,  I  knew  what  brew  of  herbs  would  help 
you.     One  night  I  thought  that  you  would  die  — " 

"Go  on,  Pomona." 

"You  could  not  breathe,  no  matter  how  high  I 
laid  you  on  the  pillows — " 

"Ay!  Why  dost  hah  again?  What  didst  thou 
then?" 

"I  held  you  in  my  arms,"  she  said.  "You  seemed 
to  get  your  breath  better  that  way,  and  then  you 
slept  at  last." 


Pomona  265 

"While  you  held  me?"  he  mused.  "How  long 
did  you  hold  me  in  your  arms,  Pomona?" 

"My  lord,"  she  said,  "the  whole  night." 

Upon  this  he  kept  silence  quite  a  long  time,  and 
she  sat  down  on  her  stool  again  and  waited.  She 
had  nursed  him  and  saved  him,  and  now  he  would 
soon  be  well :  she  ought  surely  to  rejoice,  but  (she 
knew  not  why)  her  heart  was  like  lead.  Presently 
he  called  her;  he  would  be  lifted,  shifted,  his  pillows 
were  hot,  his  bed-clothes  pressed  on  him.  As  she 
bent  over  him,  the  fretful  expression  suddenly  was 
smoothed  from  his  features. 

"I  remember  now,"  he  said,  with  a  singular  gleam 
in  his  eyes.     "  I  remember,  Pomona ;  you  kissed  me." 

My  Lord  Blantyre  began  thereafter  to  have  more 
consecutive  recollections  of  that  time  of  dreams ;  and 
when  the  night  came,  he  felt  mightily  injured,  mightily 
affronted  to  find  that  the  shadow  of  the  watcher, 
flung  by  the  rushlight  against  the  wall,  belonged  to  a 
bent  and  aged  figure,  with  a  grotesque  profile,  instead 
of  the  mild  grey  angel  that  had  soothed  him  hitherto. 
So  deep  seemed  the  injury,  so  cruel  the  neglect,  that 
the  ill-used  patient  could  not  find  it  in  him  to  consent 
to  sleep,  but  tossed  till  his  bed  grew  unbearable ;  pet- 
tishly refused  to  drink  from  Mall's  withered  hand ; 


266  Pomona 

was  quite  positive  that  the  pain  in  his  side  was  very 
bad  again,  and  that  his  angry  heart  beats  were  due 
to  fever. 

It  drew  towards  midnight.  Again  Mall  brought 
the  cooling  drink  and  offered  it  patiently.  Like 
an  old  owl  she  stood  and  blinked.  Her  toothless 
jaws  worked. 

He  made  an  angry  gesture  of  refusal;  the  cup 
was  dashed  from  her  hand  and  fell  clattering  on  the 
boards.     She  cried  out  in  dismay,  and  he  in  fury  — 

"Out  of  my  sight,  you  Hecate !" 

Then  suddenly  Pomona  stood  beside  them.  So 
soft  her  tread  that  neither  had  heard  her  come. 

"Lord,  be  good  to  us!  The  poor  gentleman's 
mad  again,"  whimpered  Mall,  as  she  went  down  on 
her  knees  to  mop. 

Pomona  was  clad  in  a  white  wrapper,  well 
starched;  the  wide  sleeves  spread  out  like  wings. 
Her  hair  hung  in  one  loose  plait  to  her  knees. 

"You  look  like  a  monstrous  beautiful  great  angel," 
cried  he.  Her  hand  was  on  his  pulse.  He  was  as 
pleased  and  soothed  as  a  naughty  infant  when  it  is 
lifted  from  its  cradle  and  nursed. 

She  stood,  and  seemed  encircled  by  the  fragrance 
of  the  sacrificed  cup ;  lavender  and  thyme  and  other 
sweet  and  wholesome  herbs. 


Pomona  267 

She  thought  he  wandered,  yet  his  pulse  was  steady- 
ing itself  under  her  finger  into  a  very  reasonable 
pace  for  a  convalescent.  She  looked  down  at  him 
with  puzzled  eyes. 

''What  is  it,  my  lord?" 

"  Prithee,"  said  he,  "  Though  you  live  so  quiet  here, 
my  maid,  and  keep  your  secrets  so  well,  you  would 
have  known,  would  you  not,  had  there  been  a  death 
at  the  Castle?" 

"Surely,  my  lord,"  she  said,  and  bent  closer  to 
comfort  him.  "Nay,  it  must  be  that  you  have  the 
fever  again,  I  fear.  Nay,  all  is  well  with  your  kins- 
folk. Mall,  haste  thee  with  another  cup  of  the 
drink.  Is  the  wound  painful,  my  good  lord,  and 
how  goes  it  with  the  breathing?" 

As  she  bent,  he  caught  her  great  plait  in  both  his 
hands  and  held  it  so  that  she  could  not  straighten 
herself. 

"It  would  go  vastly  better,"  cried  he,  "I  should 
breathe  with  infinite  more  ease,  my  sweet  nurse,  and 
forget  that  I  had  evei:  had  a  gaping  hole  to  burn  the 
side  of  me,  could  you  but  tell  me  that  there  had  been 
even  a  trifle  of  sickness  at  the  house  beyond.  Come, 
my  sword  was  red,  you  know !  It  was  not  red  for 
nothing.  Was  not  Master  Leech  sent  for  in  haste 
to   draw    more   blood? — The   excellent  physician, 


268  Pomona 

thou  mindest,  who  helped  thy  worthy  father  so 
pleasantly  from  this  world." 

She  would  have  drawn  from  him  in  soft  sorrow 
and  shame,  for  she  understood  now,  but  that  his 
weak  fingers  plucked  her  back.  Truly  there 
seemed  to  be  a  devil  in  his  eyes.  Yet  she  was  too 
tender  of  him  not  to  humour  him,  as  the  mother  her 
spoilt  child. 

"Hast  heard.  Mall,  of  aught  amiss  at  the  Castle?" 
quoth  she,  turning  her  head  to  address  the  old  woman 
at  the  fire. 

"There  was  a  gentleman  out  hunting  with  the 
Lady  Julia  o'  Thursday,"  answered  the  crone,  "as 
carried  his  arm  in  a  sling,  I  heard  tell;  though  he 
rode  with  the  best  of  them." 

"Faugh!" 

Lord  Blantyre  loosed  Pomona's  tress  and  lay 
back  sullenly.  He  drank  the  cup  when  she  held  it 
to  his  lips  in  the  same  sullen  silence ;  but  when  she 
shook  his  pillows  and  smoothed  his  sheet  and  cooed 
to  him  in  the  dear  voice  of  his  dream:  "Now 
sleep!"  he  murmured  complainingly :  "Not  if  you 
leave  me." 

Pomona's  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  a  rose- 
flush  grew  on  her  face,  lovelier  than  ever  sunrise 
or  fireglow  had  called  there. 


Pomona  269 

"I  will  not  leave  you,  my  lord,"  she  replied.  Her 
voice  filled  the  whole  room  with  deep  harmony. 

He  woke  in  the  grey  dawn,  and  there  sat  Pomona, 
her  eyes  dreaming,  her  hands  clasped,  her  face  a 
little  stern  in  its  serene,  patient  weariness.  He 
cried  to  her  sharply,  because  of  the  sharpness  with 
which  his  heart  smote  him :  — 

"Hast  sat  thus  the  whole  night  long?" 

"Surely !"  said  she. 

"Well,  to  bed  with  you  then,"  he  bade  her  im- 
patiently. "Nay,  I  want  naught.  Send  one  of 
your  wenches  to  my  bell  —  some  Sue  or  Pattie,  so  it 
be  a  young  one.    And  you  —  to  bed,  to  bed  !" 

But  she  would  not  leave  him  till  she  had  tested 
how  it  stood  with  him,  according  to  her  simple  skill. 
As  her  hand  rested  on  his  brow,  "Why  Pomona?" 
queried  he. 

"My  lord?" 

"  Pomona.  'Tis  a  marvellous  fine  name,  and  mar- 
vellous fitting  to  a  nymph  of  the  orchard.     Pomona  ! " 

"Indeed,"  she  answered  him  in  her  grave  way, 
"Sue  or  Pattie  would  better  become  me.  But  my 
mother  was  book-learned,  sir,  and  town-bred,  and 
had  her  fancies.  She  sat  much  in  the  orchard  the 
spring  that  I  was  born." 

"Ay,"  he  mused.     "So  thy  mother  was  book- 


270  Pomona 

learned  and  fanciful !"  Then  briskly  he  asked  her: 
"Wouldst  thou  not  like  to  know  my  name,  Pomona? 
Unless,  indeed,  you  know  it  already?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  what  a  woman  are  you  !  In  spite  of  apples, 
no  daughter  of  Eve  at  all?" 

She  still  shook  her  head,  and  smiling  faintly: 
"To  me  it  could  make  no  diflFerence,"  she  said. 

"Well,  now  you  shall  know,"  he  said,  "and  take 
it  to  your  maiden  dreams.  I  am  Rupert,  Earl  of 
Blantyre." 

"What,"  she  cried  quickly,  "the — "  she  broke 
off  and  hesitated.  "The  great  Earl  of  Blantyre," 
she  pursued  then,  dropping  her  eyes:  "The  King's 
friend!" 

His  laugh  rang  out  somewhat  harsh. 

"What  —  so  solitary  a  nymph,  so  country-hidden, 
and  yet  so  learned  of  the  gossip  of  the  great 
world?" 

"People  talk,"  she  murmured,  crimsoning  as  in 
deepest  shame. 

"And  you  know  what  they  call  me?  No!  Not 
the  Great  Earl,  hypocrite,  the  Wicked  Earl !  You 
knew  it?" 

She  bent  her  head. 

He  laughed  again.     "Why,  now,  what  a  night- 


Pomona  271 

mare  for  you !    Here  he  lies,  and  oh,  Pomona,  you 
have  prolonged  his  infamous  career!" 

The  Wicked  Earl  was  an  angelic  patient  for  two 
days.  On  the  third  he  was  promoted  to  the  oak 
settle,  wrapped  in  a  garment  of  the  late  farmer's,  of 
which  he  made  much  kindly  mirth.  It  was  a  golden 
day  of  joy  in  the  lonely  farmhouse. 

On  the  fourth  morning,  however,  he  wakened  to 
a  mood  of  seriousness,  not  to  say  ill-temper.  His 
first  words  were  to  request  writing-paper  and  a  quill, 
ink,  and  the  great  seal  that  hung  on  his  watch-chain. 

Pomona  stood  by  while  he  wrote ;  helped  him  with 
paper  and  wax.  She  saw  into  how  deep  a  frown  his 
brows  were  contracted,  and  her  heart  seemed  alto- 
gether to  fail  her.  She  expected  the  end;  it  was 
coming  swiftly,  and  not  as  she  had  expected  it. 

"May  I  trespass  on  your  kindness  so  far  as  to 
send  a  horseman  with  this  letter  to  the  Castle?" 
said  he  very  formally. 

She  took  it  from  him  with  her  country  curtsey. 

"You  will  be  leaving  us,  my  lord?" 

He  glanced  at  her  through  his  drooping  lids. 

"Can  I  trespass  for  ever  on  your  hospitality?" 

She  went  forth  with  the  letter  quickly,  without 
another  word. 


272  Pomona 

It  was  but  little  after  noon  when  there  came  a 
great  clatter  into  the  simple  farmyard  that  was  wont 
to  echo  to  no  brisker  sounds  than  the  lumbering 
progress  of  the  teamsters  and  their  wagon,  or  the 
patient  steps  of  Pomona's  dairy-cows.  A  great 
coach  with  four  horses  and  running  footmen  had 
drawn  up  before  the  farm-porch.  A  man  in  dark 
livery,  with  a  sleek,  secret  face,  slipped  down  from 
the  rumble,  reached  for  a  valise,  and  disappeared 
round  the  house.  The  coach  door  opened,  and  the 
Lady  Julia  Majendie  descended,  followed  by  no  less 
a  person  than  my  Lord  Majendie  himself,  who  was 
seldom  known  to  leave  his  library,  much  less  to  ac- 
company his  daughter  out  driving.  His  presence 
marked  a  great  occasion.  And  with  them  was  a  very 
fine  lady  —  a  stranger  to  any  of  the  farm  —  a  little 
lady  with  dark  hair  in  ringlets,  and  high  plumes  to  a 
great  hat,  and  a  dress  that  shone  with  as  many  pale 
colours  as  a  pigeon's  breast.  She  sniffed ;  and 
"Oh!"  cried  she  in  very  high,  loud  tones,  pressing 
a  vinaigrette  to  her  nose,  "can  my  poor  brother  be 
in  such  a  place,  and  yet  alive?" 

"Hush,  madam  !  "  said  Lord  Majendie,  somewhat 
testily,  for  Pomona  stood  in  the  door.  "I  am  sure 
we  owe  naught  but  gratitude  to  this  young  woman." 

He  was  a  gaunt,  snuffy,  untidy  old  man,  in  a  dilapi- 


Pomona  273 

dated  wig,  but  his  eyes  were  shrewd  and  kindly 
behind  the  large,  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  He 
peered  at  Pomona,  pale  and  beautiful. 

Lady  Julia  had  evidently  inherited  her  father's 
short  sight,  for  she,  too,  was  staring  through  an  eye- 
glass. She  carried  it  on  a  gold  chain,  and  when  she 
lifted  it  to  one  eye,  her  small,  fair  face  took  an  air  of 
indescribable  impertinence. 

She  interrupted  father  and  friend,  coming  to  the 
front  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  movement  of 
pointed  elbows :  — 

"Bring  us  instantly  to  Lord  Blantyre." 

"This  way,  an  it  please  you,"  said  Pomona. 

She  led  them  in,  and  there  in  the  great  kitchen, 
well  within  the  glow  from  the  deep  hearth,  propped 
on  patchwork  cushions,  wrapped  in  blue  homespun, 
lay  the  invalid. 

The  ladies  were  picking  their  steps  across  the 
flags  with  a  great  parade  of  lifting  silken  skirts ;  the 
worthy  old  scholar.  Lord  Majendie,  was  following, 
with  an  expression  of  benign,  childlike  interest,  but 
all  three  seemed  struck  by  the  same  amazement, 
almost  amounting  to  consternation.  Lord  Blantyre 
lifted  his  pallid,  black-bearded  countenance  and 
looked  at  them  with  a  gaze  of  uncompromising  ill- 
humor. 


274  Pomona 

"Good  Lord,  brother!"  exclaimed  the  little  lady 
with  the  ringlets,  at  last.  She  made  a  faint  lurch 
against  Lady  Julia. 

"  If  your  sisterly  feelings  are  too  much  for  you,  and 
you  are  contemplating  a  swoon,  pray  be  kind  enough 
to  accomplish  it  elsewhere,  Alethea,"  said  Lord 
Blantyre. 

"Oh,  my  excellent  young  friend!  Oh,  my  dear 
lord  !  Tut,  tut,  tut !  I  should  hardly  have  known 
you,"  ejaculated  the  old  man.  "You  must  tell  us 
how  this  has  come  about;  we  must  get  you  home. 
Tush  1  you  must  not  speak.  I  see  you  are  yet  but 
weakly.  My  good  young  woman,  this  has  been  a 
terrible  business  —  nay,  I  have  no  doubt  he  does 
your  nursing  infinite  credit ;  but  why  not  have  let 
us  know?    Tut,  tut!" 

Before  Pomona  could  speak,  and,  indeed,  as  she 
had  no  excuse  to  offer,  the  words  were  slow  in 
coming  —  her  patient  intervened  curtly  — 

"I  would  not  permit  her  to  tell  you,"  quoth  he. 

She  glanced  at  him  startled ;  his  eyes  were  averted. 

"Oh,  my  lord!  this  is  cruel  hearing  for  us," 
minced  Lady  Julia. 

She  might  have  spoken  to  the  wall  for  all  the  effect 
her  smile  and  ogle  produced  on  him.  She  turned 
her  glass  upon   Pomona  then   and  ran  it  up  and 


Pomona  275 

down  her  till  the  poor  girl  felt  herself  so  coarse,  so 
common,  so  ugly,  that  she  could  have  wished  herself 
dead. 

"Pray,  Lord  Majendie,"  said  Blantyre,  "is 
Colonel  Craven  yet  with  you?" 

Lady  Alethea  tossed  her  head,  flushed,  and  shot  a 
look,  half  defiance,  half  fear,  at  her  brother. 

He  propped  himself  up  on  his  elbow,  turned  and 
surveyed  her  with  a  sneering  smile. 

"How  pale  and  wasted  art  thou,  my  fair  Alethea  ! 
Hast  been  nursing  the  wounded  hero  and  pining  with 
his  pangs?  or  is't,  perchance,  all  fond  fraternal 
anguish  concerning  my  unworthy  self?  Oh,  see  you, 
I  know  what  an  uproar  you  made  about  me  all  over 
the  countryside,  what  a  hue  and  cry  for  the  lost 
brother." 

"A  plague  on  it,  Julia!"  said  Lord  Majendie, 
scratching  his  wig  perplexedly  and  addressing  his 
daughter  in  a  loud  whisper,  "what  ails  the  fellow? 
Does  he  wander,  think  you?" 

But  Lady  Alethea  seemed  to  find  a  meaning  in 
the  sick  man's  words,  for  she  tossed  her  head  once 
more  and  answered  sharply :  — 

"No,  brother,  I  made  no  hue  and  cry  for  you,  for 
'tis  not  the  first  time  it  has  been  your  pleasure  to  play 
truant  and  leave  your  loving  friends  all  without  news. 


276  Pomona 

How  was  I  to  know  that  you  were  more  sorely  hurt 
than  Colonel  Craven  ?  He  left  you,  he  told  us,  stand- 
ing by  a  tree  —  laughing  at  his  pierced  arm.  You 
are  not  wont  to  come  out  of  these  affairs  so  ill." 

That  they  were  of  the  same  blood  could  not  be 
doubted,  for  it  was  the  very  same  sneer  that  sat  on 
both  their  mouths. 

"And  pray,  since  we  must  bandy  words,"  she  went 
on,  gaining  yet  more  boldness,  "why  did  you  thus 
keep  me  wilfully  in  suspense?" 

"Because,"  said  he  sweetly,  "I  was  too  ill  for 
thy  nursing,  my  Alethea." 

"I  presume,"  said  she,  "you  had  a  nurse  to  your 
fancy?" 

Her  black  eyes  rolled  flashing  on  Pomona.  The 
Earl  made  no  reply. 

"  Let  me  assure  your  lordship,"  put  in  his  would-be 
host  here  quickly,  "  that  Colonel  Craven  is  gone." 

"  'Tis  well  then,"  replied  Blantyre  ceremoniously, 
"and  I  will,  with  your  permission,  this  very  night 
avail  myself  of  your  hospitality  for  a  few  days ;  but 
you  will,  I  fear,  have  to  send  a  litter  for  me.  To 
sit  in  a  coach  is  yet  beyond  me." 

And  while  the  good-natured  nobleman  instantly 
promised  compliance.  Lord  Blantyre,  waving  away 
further  discourse  with  a  gesture,  went  on  wearily :  — 


Pomona  277 

"Let  me  beg  of  you  now  not  to  remain  here  or 
keep  these  ladies  in  surroundings  so  little  suited  to 
their  gentility.  And  the  sooner,  my  good  lord,  you 
can  despatch  that  litter,  the  sooner  shall  you  have 
the  joy  of  my  company.  Farewell,  fair  Julia,  for  but 
a  brief  space.  I  trust  that  you  and  Colonel  Craven 
enjoyed  the  chase  the  other  day.  We  shall  meet 
soon  again,  sister;  pray  you  bear  up  against  our 
present  parting." 

Both  the  ladies  swept  him  such  very  fine  curtsies 
that  the  homely  kitchen  seemed  full  of  the  rustle  of 
silk.  Lady  Julia  Majendie  had  a  little  fixed  smile 
on  her  lips. 

The  farm  servants  were  all  watching  at  the  windows 
to  see  the  great  ladies  get  into  their  coach,  to  see  it 
wheel  about  with  the  four  horses  clattering  and  cur- 
vetting. Pomona  and  Lord  Blantyre  were  alone. 
She  stood,  her  back  against  the  wall,  her  head  held 
high, — not  in  pride,  for  Pomona  knew  no  pride,  but 
with  the  natural  carriage  of  her  perfect  strength  and 
balance.  Her  eyes  looked  forth,  grieving  yet  untear- 
ful,  her  mouth  was  set  into  lines  of  patient  endurance. 
He  regarded  her  darkly. 

"I  go  this  evening,  Pomona." 

"Ay,  my  lord." 

The  tall  wooden  clock  ticked  off  a  heavy  minute. 


278  Pomona 

" Is  my  man  here ? "  asked  Lord  Blantyre.  "Bid 
him  come  to  me,  then,  to  help  me  to  my  room." 

His  lordship's  toilet  was  a  lengthy  proceeding,  for 
neither  his  strength  nor  his  temper  was  equal  to  the 
strain.  But  it  was  at  length  accomplished,  and  per- 
fumed, shaven,  clothed  once  again  in  fine  linen  and 
silk  damask,  wrapped  in  a  great,  furred  cloak.  Lord 
Blant)n:e  sat  in  the  wooden  armchair  and  drank  the 
cordial  that  Pomona  had  prepared  him. 

He  was  panting  with  his  exertions,  his  heart  was 
fluttering,  but  Pomona's  recipes  were  cunning;  in 
a  little  while  he  felt  his  pulses  calm  down  and  a  glow 
of  power  return  to  him ;  and  with  the  help  of  his  cane 
and  his  servant  he  was  able  to  advance  towards  the 
door. 

"The  young  woman  is  outside,  waiting  to  take 
leave  of  your  lordship,"  volunteered  the  sleek  Craik. 

His  master  halted  and  fixed  him  with  an  arro- 
gant eye. 

"The  young  woman  of  the  farm,"  explained  the 
valet  glibly,  "and  knowing  your  lordship  likes  me 
to  see  to  these  details,  I  have  brought  a  purse  of  gold 
—  twenty  pieces,  my  lord." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  chinked  the  silken 
bag  as  he  spoke. 

"For  whom  is  that?"  asked  Lord  Blantyre. 


Pomona  279 

The  man  stared. 

"For  the  young  woman,  my  lord." 

Lord  Blantyre  steadied  himself  with  the  hand  that 
gripped  the  speaker's  arm;  then,  lifting  the  cane 
with  the  other,  struck  the  fellow  across  the  knuckles 
so  sharply  that  with  a  howl  he  let  the  purse  fall. 

"Pick  it  up,"  said  the  Wicked  Earl;  "put  it  into 
your  pocket ;  and  remember,  for  the  future,  that  the 
servant  who  presumes  to  know  his  master's  business 
least  understands  his  own." 

The  litter  was  brought  to  the  door  of  his  chamber 
and  they  carried  him  out  through  the  kitchen  to  the 
porch;  and  there,  where  Pomona  stood  waiting,  he 
bade  them  halt  and  set  it  down.  She  leaned  towards 
him  to  look  on  him,  she  told  herself,  for  the  last  time. 
Her  heart  contracted  to  see  him  so  wan  and  ex- 
hausted. 

"  Good-bye,  Pomona,"  said  he,  gazing  up  into  her 
sorrowful  eyes,  distended  in  the  evening  dimness. 
He  had  seen  a  deer  look  at  him  thus,  in  the  dusk, 
out  of  a  thicket. 

"  Good-bye,  my  lord,"  said  she. 

"Ah,  Pomona,"  said  he,  "I  made  a  sweeter  jour- 
ney the  day  I  came  here!" 

And  without  another  word  to  her  he  signed  to  the 
men,  and  they  buckled  to  their  task  again. 


28o  Pomona 

Her  heart  shuddered  as  she  watched  the  slow  pro- 
cession pass  into  the  shadows.  They  might  have 
been  bearing  a  coffin.  With  the  instinct  of  her  inar- 
ticulate grief  she  went  to  seek  the  last  memory  of  him 
in  his  room.  By  the  light  of  a  flaring  tallow  candle, 
she  found  Lord  Blantyre's  man  re-packing  his  mas- 
ter's valise.  He  looked  offensively  at  her  as  she 
entered. 

"Young  woman,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head,  "you 
have  taken  a  very  great  liberty." 

Then  picking  up  the  coarse  white  shift  and  sur- 
veying it  with  an  air  of  intense  disgust,  "  'Tis  a  won- 
der," quoth  he,  "his  lordship  didn't  die  of  this." 

"I  fear,  my  fair  Julia,  that,  fondly  as  I  should  love 
it,  I  shall  never  call  you  sister." 

Julia  turned  at  the  fleer  and  flung  a  glance  of  acute 
anger  at  her  friend. 

"If  you  had  not  been  yourself  so  determined  to 
have  the  nursing  of  Colonel  Craven's  wound,  my 
dearest'  Alethea,"  responded  she  sweetly,  "the 
friendly  desire  of  your  heart  might  be  in  a  better  way 
of  accomplishment.  And  oh!" — she  fanned  her- 
self and  tittered,  "I  pity  you,  my  poor  Alethea,  I  do 
indeed,  when  I  think  of  those  wasted  attentions." 

Lady  Alethea  had  her  feelings  less  under  control 


Pomona  281 

than  her  cool-blooded  friend.  Her  dark  cheek  em- 
purpled, her  full  lips  trembled. 

"My  woman  tells  me,"  proceeded  Julia,  "that  the 
creature  Craik,  your  brother's  man,  hath  no  doubt 
of  my  lord  Blantyre's  infatuation.  *  Pomona ! '  he 
will  call  in  his  sleep.  —  Pomona !  'Tis  the  wench's 
name.  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  sister-in-law,  in  good 
sooth ! " 

Lady  Alethea  wheeled  upon  her  with  an  eye  of 
fire. 

"Need  my  brother  wed  the  woman  because  he 
calls  upon  her  name?"  she  mocked. 

"If  I  know  my  lord  your  brother,  he  might  well 
wed  her  even  because  he  need  not  .  .  ."  smiled  the 
other.  "Now  you  are  warned.  'Tis  none  of  my 
concern,  I  thank  my  Providence !  You  will  be  saved 
the  wage  of  a  dairymaid,  at  least." 

Alethea's  waving  colour,  her  flurried  breath,  bore 
witness  to  discomposure. 

"  My  Lord  Blantyre,"  pursued  Lady  Julia  relent- 
lessly, "has  ever  taken  pleasure  in  astonishing  the 
world." 

Lady  Alethea  clenched  her  hands. 

"Your  father  rules  here:  let  him  transport  the 
slut!" 

"  Nay,"  said  Julia.     She  placed  her  hand  upon  the 


282  Pomona 

heaving  shoulder  and  looked  at  her  friend  with  a 
singular  light  in  her  pale  yet  brilliant  eyes.  "Do 
you  think  to  break  a  man  of  a  fancy  by  such  measures  ? 
'Twould  be  as  good  as  forging  the  ring.  Nay,  my 
sweet,  I  can  better  help  thee  —  ay,  and  give  thee  an 
hour's  sport  besides." 

And  as  Alethea  raised  questioning  eyes,  Julia 
shook  her  silver-fair  ringlets  and  laughed  again. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  quoth  she. 

"Will  Mistress  Pomona  favor  the  Lady  Julia 
Majendie  with  her  company  at  the  castle?" 

This  was  the  message  carried  to  the  farmhouse  by 
a  mounted  servant.  He  had  a  pillion  behind  him 
on  the  stout  palfrey  and  his  orders  were,  he  said,  to 
bring  Mistress  Pomona  back  with  him. 

Pomona  came  running  out,  with  the  harvest  sun- 
shine on  her  copper  hair ;  her  cheek  was  drained  of 
blood. 

"Is  my  lord  ill  again?"  she  queried  breath- 
lessly. 

The  man  shook  his  head;  either  he  was  dull  or 
well  drilled. 

Pomona  mounted  behind  him  without  a  second's 
more  delay ;  just  as  she  was,  bareheaded ;  her  apron 
stained  with  apple  juice  and  her  sleeves  rolled  up 


Pomona  283 

above  her  elbows.  She  had  no  thought  for  herself, 
and  only  spoke  to  bid  the  servant  hurry. 

For  a  fortnight  she  had  heard  no  word  of  her 
patient.  In  her  simple  heart  she  could  conceive  no 
other  reason  for  being  summoned  now  than  because, 
once  more,  he  needed  her  nursing. 

But  when  she  reached  the  Castle  and  was  passed 
with  mocking  ceremony  from  servant  to  servant,  the 
anxious  questions  died  on  her  lips ;  and  when  she  was 
ushered,  at  length,  into  a  vast  bedchamber,  hung  with 
green  silk,  gold  fringed,  and  was  greeted  by  Lady 
Julia,  all  in  green  herself,  like  a  mermaid,  smiling 
sweetly  at  her  from  between  her  pale  ringlets,  she  was 
so  bewildered  that  she  forgot  even  to  curtsey.  She 
never  heeded  how  the  tirewoman,  who  had  last 
received  her,  tittered  as  she  closed  the  door. 

"A  fair  morning  to  you,  mistress,"  said  Lady  Julia. 
"I  am  sensible  of  your  kindness  in  coming  to  my 
hasty  invitation." 

"Madam!"  faltered  Pomona,  and  remembered 
her  reverence;  "I  am  ever  at  your  service,  honour- 
able madam.     I  hope  my  lord  is  not  sick  again." 

"My  father?"  mocked  the  mermaid,  running 
her  white  hand  through  her  curls.  But  Pomona 
neither  understood  nor  practised  the  wiles  of  women. 

"I  meant  my  Lord  Blantyre,"  she  said. 


284  Pomona 

"  Oh,  the  Lord  Earl,  your  patient !  Nay,  it  goes 
better  with  him.  Oh,  he  has  been  sadly,  sadly.  We 
have  had  a  sore  and  anxious  time ;  such  a  wound 
as  his,  neglected  — "  she  shook  her  ringlets. 

Pomona's  lip  suddenly  trembled,  she  caught  it  be- 
tween her  teeth  to  steady  it. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Julia,  interrupting  herself  and  turning 
on  her  chair,  "here  comes  the  Lady  Alethea." 

Alethea  entered,  muicing  on  high-heeled  shoes,  her 
cherry  lips  pursed,  her  dark  eyes  dancing  as  if  a  pair 
of  mischievous  sprites  had  taken  lodging  there.  She 
gazed  at  Pomona,  so  large,  so  work-stained,  so  in- 
congruous a  figure  in  the  great,  luxurious  room. 
Her  nostrils  dilated.  She  looked  as  wicked  as  a 
kid. 

"My  brother,"  said  she,  addressing  her  friend, 
though  she  kept  staring  at  Pomona,  "has  heard  of 
this  wench's  arrival.     He  would  speak  with  her." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  even  now,"  said  Pomona. 

Both  the  ladies  shrieked;  so  did  the  maid  who 
had  followed  Lady  Alethea  into  the  room. 

"My  good  creature !    In  that  attire?" 

"My  brother,  so  fastidious,  so  suffering!" 

"And  she,"  cried  the  tirewoman,  taking  up  the 
note,  "still  with  the  stench  of  the  saucepan  about 
her !    Positively,  madam,  the  room  reeks." 


Pomona  285 

If  Pomona  carried  any  savours  beyond  those  of 
lavender  and  the  herbs  she  loved,  it  was  of  good, 
sweet  apples  and  fragrant,  burnt  sugar.  But  she 
stood  in  her  humiliation  and  felt  herself  more  unfit 
for  all  the  high  company  than  the  beasts  of  her  farm- 
yard. 

"You  must  not  take  it  unkindly,  child,"  said  Lady 
Julia,  with  her  cruel  little  laugh  and  her  soft  voice ; 
"but  my  Lord  Blantyre,  you  see,  hath  ever  a  great 
distaste  of  all  that  is  homely  and  uncomely.  He  hath 
suffered  extraordinarily  in  that  respect  of  late.  We 
must  humour  him." 

Truly  Pomona  was  punished.  She  marvelled  now 
at  herself,  remembering  what  her  presumption  had 
been. 

"I  will  go  home,  madam,  if  you  permit  me." 

Again  the  ladies  cried  out.  To  thwart  the  invalid 
—  'twas  impossible.  Was  the  girl  mad  ?  Nay,  she 
would  do  as  they  bid  ?  'Twas  well,  then.  —  Lady 
Julia,  so  kind  was  she,  would  help  to  clothe  her  in 
some  better  apparel  and  make  her  fit  to  present  her- 
self. The  while  the  Lady  Alethea  would  return  to 
her  post  of  assiduous  nurse  and  inform  his  lordship 
of  Pomona's  speedy  attendance. 

Pomona  gave  herself  into  their  hands. 

Lord  Blantyre  lay  on  a  couch  in  the  sunshine.     A 


286  Pomona 

fountain  played  merrily  to  his  right;  to  his  left  his 
sister  sat  demurely  at  embroidery.  In  spite  of  her 
ladyship's  melancholy  account,  the  patient  seemed  to 
have  gained  marvellously  in  strength.  But  he  was 
in  no  better  humour  with  the  world  than  on  the  last 
day  of  his  stay  at  the  farm. 

He  tossed  and  fretted  among  his  rich  cushions. 

"She  tarries,"  he  said,  irritably,  for  the  twentieth 
time.  "You  are  all  in  league  to  plague  me.  Why 
did  you  tell  me  she  was  coming?" 

"My  good  brother,"  answered  the  fair  embroider- 
ess,  tilting  her  head  to  fling  him  the  family  sneer, 
"I  pray  you  curb  your  impatience,  for  yonder  comes 
your  siren." 

Here  was  Julia  indeed  undulating  towards  them, 
and  after  her  —  Pomona ! 

Lord  Blantyre  sat  up  suddenly  and  stared.  Then 
he  fell  back  on  his  cushions  and  shot  a  look  at  Alethea 
before  which  she  quailed. 

Stumbling  in  high  heels  that  tripped  her  at  every 
step,  she  who  had  been  wont  to  move  free  as  a  god- 
dess ;  scarce  able  to  breathe  in  the  laced  bodice  that 
pressed  her  form  out  of  all  its  natural  shapeliness,  and 
left  so  much  of  her  throat  bare  that  the  white  skin  was 
all  crimson  in  shame  down  to  the  borrowed  kerchief ; 
her  artless,  bewildered  face  raddled  with  white  and 


Pomona  287 

red,  her  noble  head  scarcely  recognisable  through  the 
bunching  curls  that  sat  so  strangely  each  side  of  it 
—  what  Pomona  was  this  ? 

"Here  is  your  kind  nurse,"  fluted  Lady  Julia. 
"She  had  a  fancy  to  bedizen  herself  for  your  eyes. 
I  thought  'twould  please  you,  my  lord,  if  I  humoured 
the  creature." 

"  Everyone  is  to  be  humoured  here,"  thought  poor 
Pomona  vaguely. 

"Come  to  his  lordship,  child,"  bade  Julia,  her 
tones  tripped  up  with  laughter. 

Pomona  tottered  yet  a  pace  or  two  and  then  halted. 
Taller  even  than  the  tall  Lady  Julia,  the  lines  of  her 
generous  womanhood  took  up  the  silken  skirt  to  ab- 
surd brevity,  exposing  the  awkward,  twisting  feet. 
Nymph  no  longer  was  she,  but  a  huge  painted  pup- 
pet. Only  the  eyes  were  unchanged,  Pomona's 
roe-deer  eyes,  grieving  and  wondering,  shifting  from 
side  to  side  in  dumb  pleading.  Truly  this  was  an 
excellent  jest  of  Lady  Julia  Majendie's ! 

It  was  strange  that  Lady  Alethea,  bending  closer 
and  closer  over  her  work,  should  have  no  laughter 
left  after  that  single  glance  from  her  brother's  eyes ; 
and  that  Lord  Blantyre  himself  should  show  such 
lack  of  humorous  appreciation.  There  was  a  heavy 
silence.     Pomona  tried  to  draw  a  breath  to  relieve 


288  Pomona 

her  bursting  anguish,  but  in  vain  —  she  was  held  as 
in  a  vice.  Her  heart  fluttered ;  she  felt  as  if  she  must 
die. 

"Pomona,"  said  Lord  Blantyre  suddenly,  "come 
closer." 

He  reached  and  caught  up  his  sister's  scissors 
from  her  knee,  and  leaning  forward,  snipped  the 
laces  that  strained  across  the  fine  scarlet  satin  of 
Pomona's  cruel  bodice. 

"Now  breathe,"  ordered  he. 

And  while  the  other  two  were  staring,  unable  to 
credit  their  eyes,  Pomona's  prison  fell  apart ;  and, 
over  her  heaving  bosom,  her  thick  white  shift  took  its 
own  noble  folds. 

Then  the  woman  in  her  awoke  and  revolted.  She 
flung  from  her  feet  the  high-heeled  shoes  and,  with 
frenzied  hands  tearing  down  her  mockery  of  a  head- 
dress, she  ran  to  the  fountain  and  began  to  dash  the 
paint  from  her  face.  The  tears  streamed  down  her 
cheeks  as  she  laved  them. 

"Sweet  and  gentle  ladies,"  said  the  Wicked  Earl 
—  his  tones  cut  the  air  like  a  fine  blade  —  "I  thank 
you  for  your  most  excellent  demonstration  of  the 
superiority  of  your  high  breeding.  May  I  beg  you 
both  to  retire  upon  your  triumph,  and  leave  me  to 
deal  with  this  poor,  inferior  wretch,  since  you  have 


Pomona  289 

now  most  certainly  convinced  me  that  she  can  never 
aspire  to  such  gentility  as  yours?" 

Alethea  rose,  and  scattering  her  silks  on  one  side, 
her  embroidery  on  the  other,  walked  straight  away 
down  the  terrace,  without  casting  a  look  behind  her. 
Julia  ran  after  her  with  skipping  step,  caught  her 
under  the  arm,  and  the  laughter  of  her  malice  rang 
out  long  after  she  herself  had  disappeared. 

"  Pomona,"  said  Lord  Blantyre. 

Often  he  had  called  to  her,  in  feverish  complaint, 
or  anger,  or  pettishly  like  a  child,  but  never  in  such 
a  tone  as  this.  She  came  to  him,  as  she  had  always 
come ;  and  then  she  stood  in  shame  before  him,  her 
long  hair  streaming,  the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks, 
her  hands  folded  at  her  throat,  her  shapely  feet 
gripping  the  ground  in  Julia  Majendie's  green  silk 
stockings.  Slowly  his  gaze  enveloped  her.  All  at 
once  he  smiled ;  and  then,  meeting  her  grieving  eyes, 
he  grew  grave  again,  and  suddenly  his  haughty  face 
was  broken  up  by  tenderness.  He  caught  one  drip- 
ping twist  of  hair  and  pulled  her  towards  him  after 
his  gentle,  cruel  fashion.  She  fell  on  her  knees  be- 
side him  and  hid  her  face  in  his  cushions. 

"Kiss  me,  Pomona,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  she  said,  "spare  me;  I  am  only  a 
poor  girl ! " 
u 


290  Pomona 

Many  a  time  she  had  dreamed  since  the  morning 
in  the  orchard  that  she  was  carrying  that  bleeding 
body,  her  lips  on  the  dying  roses  of  his  lips ;  but  never, 
in  her  humility,  had  she,  even  in  her  sleep,  thought 
of  herself  as  in  his  arms.  This  was  no  dream,  yet 
so  he  clasped  her. 

He  bent  his  dark  head  over  her  radiant  hair,  his 
voice  dropped  words  sweeter  than  honey,  more  heal- 
ing than  balm,  into  her  heart,  that  was  still  so  bruised 
that  it  could  scarce  beat  to  joy. 

"When  I  first  beheld  you  in  the  orchard,  I  was  sorry 
that  I  might  have  to  die,  Pomona,  because  you  were 
in  life.  You  carried  me  in  your  arms,  and  kept  my 
soul  from  passing  by  the  touch  of  your  lips.  When 
the  fever  burnt  me,  you  brought  me  coolness  —  you 
lifted  me  and  gave  me  breath.  All  night  you  held 
me.  Patient,  strong  Pomona !  You  bore  with  all 
my  humours.  You  came  to  me  in  the  night  from  your 
sleep,  all  in  white  like  an  angel,  your  bare  feet  on  the 
boards.  Oh,  my  gentle  nurse,  my  humble  love,  my 
mate,  my  wife !" 

She  raised  her  head  to  gaze  at  him.  Yet  she  took 
the  wonder,  like  a  child,  not  disclaiming,  not  ques- 
tioning. 

"Oh!"   she  said,  with  a  deep,  soft  sigh. 

He  fondly  pushed  the  tangled  hair  from  her  brow. 


Pomona  291 

"  And  shall  a  man  make  shift  with  sham  and  hollow 
artifice,  when  he  can  possess  truth  itself  ?  They  put 
paint  on  your  cheeks,  my  Pomona,  and  tricked  you 
out  in  gauds :  and  behold,  I  saw  how  great  was  the 
true  woman  beside  the  painted  doll !" 

He  kissed  her  lips ;  and  then  he  cried :  — 

"  Oh,  Golden  Apple,  how  is  the  taste  of  thee  sweet 
and  pure !" 

And  after  a  silence  he  said  to  her  faintly,  for  he 
was  still  weak  for  such  rapture :  — 

"Lift  me,  my  love,  and  let  me  lie  awhile  against 
your  woman's  heart,  for  never  have  I  drawn  such 
sweet  breath  as  in  your  arms." 


THE   MIRROR   OF  THE  FAITHFUL 
HEART 


VII 

THE  MIRROR  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  HEART 

Hail,  rain,  or  snow,  Sir  Peter  Coverdale  waited 
upon  Lady  Barbara  Ogle  precisely  at  four  o'clock 
of  the  afternoon  every  weekday,  partook  of  a  dish  of 
tea,  and  joined  her  in  a  game  of  tric-trac.  On  the 
stroke  of  half-past  five  the  grey  mare  was  led  round 
under  the  portico  and  Sir  Peter  jogged  gently  back  to 
his  solitary  home.  Each  Sunday  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  Ogle  Hall  an  hour  earlier ;  but  the  grey 
mare  had  her  Sabbath  rest,  and  a  more  ancient 
quadruped  his  weekly  outing  to  convey  Sir  Peter  to 
the  repast  which  Lady  Barbara  dispensed  with 
stately  amiability  to  himself,  the  parson  and  his  lady. 

Every  quarter-day  he  went  over  in  state  to  pay  her 

the  rent  of  certain  woods,  hired  for  his  coverts  (for 

tradition's  sake  merely ;  Sir  Peter,  over  and  above  all 

things  scholar  and  dilettante,  cared  little  for  shooting 

and  less  for  the  chase),  attired  as  became  the  seasons, 

and  bringing  the  offering  of  an  appropriate    posy. 

Sir  Peter  would   then   propose  marriage  to  Lady 

295 


296         The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

Barbara,  who  had  been  for  ten  years  the  object  of  his 
declared  affections,  for  ten  previous  that  of  his  secret 
ardours.  Every  quarter-day  Lady  Barbara  was  over- 
come by  surprise,  shed  a  few  tears,  scolded  a  little, 
smiled  a  little,  gave  him  a  determined  refusal  and  her 
hand  to  kiss. 

"  When  last  I  died  {and,  dear,  I  die 
As  often  as  from  thee  I  go), 

^  4:  4:  4=  >N  sfi 

/  can  remember  yet  that  I 
Something  did  say,  and  something  did  bestow." 

The  singing  words  of  old  Donne  might  have  been 
penned  to  fit  the  case. 

They  parted  better  friends  than  ever,  but  if  the 
gentleman  rode  home  at  a  slow  pace,  his  fine  old  head 
sunk  sadly  on  his  breast,  it  might  be  observed  that  the 
lady,  on  the  other  hand,  wenu  aL^ut  the  house  all  the 
evening  even  more  briskly  than  ever ;  that  she  sniffed 
complacently  at  a  posy  in  her  kerchief,  and  was  un- 
wontedly  lenient  to  the  maids. 

Lady  Barbara  was  a  widow.  Squire  Ogle  had 
left  her  no  children,  but  a  comfortable  estate,  which 
she  managed  with  prudence,  energy,  and  enjoyment. 

Lady  Barbara  was  fair ;  she  was  —  plump ;  she 
was  —  quite  thirty-nine.     Sir  Peter's  name  was  very 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart         297 

old,  so  was  his  house.  He  was  lean  and  melancholy, 
fond  of  the  poets,  and  indeed  of  all  his  library 
(which  smelt  good  of  old  leathers,  was  brown  and 
dimly  flecked  with  gold,  with  an  air  of  russet  antique 
dignity,  and  which  he  unconsciously  matched  very 
well  in  his  brown  suit  and  dim  gilt  buttons).  His 
estate  touched  the  Ogle  boundaries.  He  had  a  suffi- 
cient competence  to  feel  that  with  proper  pride  he 
might  aspire  to  the  hand  of  his  rich  and  fair  neigh- 
bour.   He  was  a  bachelor,  and  he  had  loved  but  her. 

Upon  a  certain  Michaelmas  Sir  Peter  might  have 
been  seen  ambulating  his  neglected  garden  in  search 
of  the  quarterly  posy.  His  russet  suit  had  been  care- 
fully brushed,  his  ample  locks,  all  silvered  already 
though  they  were,  had  been  on  the  contrary  most  hand- 
somely powdered.  His  heart  fluttered  as  he  picked 
his  nosegay,  autumii  bibssoms,  as  fragrant  yet  and 
tender,  if  with  as  little  hold  on  life,  as  his  own 
delicate  passion. 

There  was  a  bloom  as  of  the  purple  on  the  grape, 
as  of  the  gold  on  the  apple,  over  the  land  as  he  rode 
along  the  familiar  road.  The  mild  air  was  full  of  the 
tart  savour  of  the  fading  leaf,  the  sweetness  of  the 
hoarded  stack.  The  yellow  sunlight  lay  very  gently 
upon  the  world. 


298         The  Mirror  of  the  Fajihful  Heart 

He  found  Lady  Barbara  on  the  garden  terrace; 
'twas  her  favourite  seat  in  fitting  weather.  But  even 
before  he  had  had  time  to  make  his  first  bow,  be- 
fore he  could  lift  his  hand  to  offer  the  posy  —  and 
this  demanded  an  exquisite  flourish,  for  it  should  in- 
dicate his  heart  before  reaching  her  taper  fingers  — 
he  perceived  that  something  unusual  had  happened. 
Lady  Barbara  was  flustered.  There  was  a  wonder- 
ful grandeur  of  silk  and  brocade  about  her,  of  fine 
gophered  muslin  and  delicate  lace. 

For  one  unreasonable  instant  his  old  heart  gave  a 
leap.  Was  this  Michaelmas  Day  to  be  the  day  of  all 
days  to  him  at  last?  But  the  next  moment  he  told 
himself  with  sorry  humour  that  he  was  but  the  appro- 
priate goose.  His  uplifted  hand  fell  stiffly  by  his 
side.  Alas !  Elderly  lover  though  he  was,  he  had 
all  the  intuitions  of  the  devoted  heart.  Not  he  had 
anything  to  say  to  the  unwonted  flowering  of  his  be- 
loved's attire,  to  the  unwonted  rose  upon  her  fine, 
smooth  cheek.  She  had  no  thought  for  him  to-day ; 
nay,  he  was  not  even  sure  that  he  was  welcome. 

"La  !"  she  cried.  "Sir  Peter !  (Where  lags  that 
wench  with  the  tay?)  A  fine  afternoon,  Sir  Peter. 
I  fear  you  must  excuse  me  from  our  game  to-day. 
I  am  expecting  a  visitor." 

Expecting  a   visitor !    Not   have   their  tric-trac ! 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart         299 

Such  untoward  occurrences  had  interrupted  their 
existences  but  once  these  ten  years,  when  Lady  Bar- 
bara had  had  the  influenza. 

Sir  Peter  slipped  the  nosegay  to  his  left  hand,  while 
he  pulled  a  little  bag  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  with 
the  right.  It  was  his  pleasure  to  present  his  debt  to 
the  lady  every  quarter  in  the  form  of  gold  pieces  en- 
closed in  a  charming  little  reticule  of  coloured  taffety, 
constructed  for  him  by  his  housekeeper  and  tied  with 
gold  thread.  These  dainty  receptacles,  after  being 
duly  emptied  of  their  prosaic  contents.  Lady  Barbara 
was  given  to  fill  with  lavender  and  to  dispose  about 
her  cupboards  and  presses.  There  were  not  yet 
enough  for  every  drawer,  and  perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  she  still  refused  Sir  Peter. 

Usually  he  took  a  poetic  pleasure  in  the  discharg- 
ing of  his  obligation,  but  this  afternoon  the  flurry  of 
her  air  in  which  he  had  no  share,  the  elegance  that 
put  him  at  such  a  distance  troubled  him.  He  drew 
forth  the  little  bag  and  held  it  out  without  a  word. 
'Twas  of  purple  silk,  embroidered  in  silver  roses. 
It  had  appeared  to  him  vastly  tasteful  but  an  hour 
ago. 

''What's  that?"  she  cried,  looking  at  it  as  it  lay 
in  the  pale  hollow  of  his  trembling  old  hand. 

"My  debt,"  said  he  gravely;  he  that  had  generally 


300         The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

so  apt  a  quotation  to  lead  up  to  his  own  most  poetic 
declaration. 

"What !"  cried  she  sharply.  "  'Tis  never  Quarter 
Day.     If  I  had  not  clean  forgotten ! 

"The  fact  is,  Sir  Peter,  I  have  been  quite  upset  — 
I  vow  the  wenches  have  forgotten  the  tay ;  but  they 
are  prodigious  busy.  'Twas  quite  unexpected. 
You  must  want  your  cup." 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "never  mind  the  tay." 

She  accepted  his  suggestion  without  seeming  to 
hear  it,  after  the  fashion  of  housekeepers  who  do  not 
wish  to  press  their  servants. 

"  I  received  a  despatch  from  my  cousin  Damory  this 
morning.  Pray,  have  you  heard  me  mention  my 
cousin,  the  Lord  Earl  of  Damory  ?  He  proposes  to 
lie  the  night  at  Ogle  Hall.  He  will  perchance  stay 
longer.  I  know  not.  We  have  not  met,"  she  said, 
playing  with  the  little  purple  bag  in  a  manner  that 
showed  how  far  away  her  thoughts  were,  for  she  was 
a  woman  careful  over  money,  "we  have  not  met  for 
I  know  not  how  many  years." 

She  looked  down  and  a  tremulous  blushing 
emotion  transfigured  her  comely  face  as  the 
autumn  will,  now  and  again,  wear  an  air  of 
spring. 

"I  see  it  all,"  said  Sir  Peter,  and  groped  blindly 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart        301 

for  his  hat  where  he  had  set  it  on  the  balustrade. 
''You  —  you  once  loved  each  other." 

"He  remembers  me  still,  it  seems,"  faltered  the 
lady.  "It  was  long,  long  ago;  before  even  I  met 
my  poor  Ogle,  but  there  are  things  the  heart  cannot 
forget." 

"I  understand,"  said  Sir  Peter,  and  clapped 
his  three-cornered  hat  over  his  own  poor  heart. 

"We  went  our  ways,"  said  Lady  Barbara,  com- 
placent in  her  reminiscences.  "I  fear  he  has  led  a 
sad,  wild  life  since  he,  too,  was  widowed,  but  —  his 
letter  is  vastly  flattering  —  he  writes  with  great  feel- 
ing." 

The  lady  turned  coy.  "I  could  read  you  a  phrase 
or  two." 

She  dived  with  two  white  fingers  under  her  ca- 
pacious kerchief.  The  letter  was  in  her  bosom. 
There  are  things  flesh  and  blood  cannot  bear,  be  it 
turned  of  sixty. 

"Madam,"  said  Sir  Peter,  bowing  low,  "you  are 
busy.     I  will  intrude  no  longer." 

He  turned  and  left  her,  and  she  raised  no  sound  to 
call  him  back. 

Thus  did  it  come  about  that  on  that  Michaelmas 
Day  Sir  Peter  Coverdale  neither  proposed  for  the 
Lady  Barbara  nor  presented  his  love  token. 


302  The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

The  following  day  Sir  Peter  was  fully  determined 
not  to  ride  over  to  Ogle  Hall.  He  lingered  unwontedly 
over  his  dinner,  though  he  had  but  a  poor  appetite ; 
and  when  the  time  drew  near  for  departing  sat  him- 
self down  before  the  fire  in  his  library  and  opened  a 
volume  of  Jeremy  Taylor  as  if  he  meant  not  to 
budge  for  a  month.  But  he  had  artfully  remembered 
to  forget  to  counter-order  the  mare,  and  when  she 
came  with  stiff  prancings  to  the  door  (for  it  was  a 
frosty  and  exhilarating  afternoon)  it  seemed  unreason- 
able that  he  should  not  at  least  take  a  turn  in  the  park. 

After  this  no  one  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  it 
was  but  shortly  after  the  usual  hour  that  he  trotted 
under  the  granite  portico  of  Lady  Barbara's  house, 
with  its  spreading  shell  canopy  and  fluted  pilasters. 

He  was  gathering  himself  together  with  a  very 
solemn  countenance  before  dismounting,  when  the 
door  was  flung  open  and  one  of  the  apple-faced  foot- 
men ran  out. 

"My  lady  bid  me  watch  for  you.  Sir  Peter,"  said 
he  with  a  grin  of  cordial  welcome.  A  very  trim  little 
maid  seized  hold  of  the  gentleman  in  the  hall. 

"Her  ladyship  is  in  the  blue  parlour,"  quoth  she, 
and  tripped  before  him  to  the  door. 

"Bodes  not  this  cheerful  bustle  ill  for  me?" 
thought  Sir  Peter.    He  looked  round  darkly  as  he 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart         303 

entered,  but  her  ladyship  was  alone.  A  tea-tray  of 
very  agreeable  brilliance  was  laid  before  the  fire.  The 
urn  was  hissing. 

"One  minute,"  said  Lady  Barbara,  uplifting  a 
taper  finger  to  arrest  him,  and  thereupon  she  poured 
the  bubbling  water  into  the  melon-shaped  tea-pot, 
and  the  whole  air  was  filled  with  fragrance. 

"You  must  want  your  Bohea  this  cold  day," 
said  Lady  Barbara  sweetly. 

She  came  forward  to  greet  him,  and  he  saw  behind 
her  the  tric-trac  board  temptingly  displayed  between 
two  arm-chairs. 

"She  is  a  true  woman,"  said  the  dejected  swain  to 
himself.  "She  thinks  by  these  things  to  soften  the 
blow  !"  He  looked  at  her  long  and  tenderly  as  he 
took  her  hand.  She  was  changed  again  since  yester- 
day. Where  was  the  youthful  exuberance  of  curls, 
and  the  little  fly-away  pink  bow  that  had  sat  so 
coquettishly  in  the  midst  of  them?  Where  was  the 
rose-flowered  brocade;  where  the  velvet  bands  and 
the  diamond  buckles,  the  swelling  magnificence  of 
paniers,  the  rich  torsades  of  lace? 

"Her  incomparable  heart  mourns  over  my  grief," 
he  reflected,  gently  shaking  his  powdered  head ;  then 
to  the  fell  presentiment  of  his  forthcoming  loss  of  her 
broke  into  some  lines  from  his  favourite  Donne :  — 


304         The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

"  If  yet  I  have  not  all  thy  love, 
Dear,  I  shall  never  have  it  all; 
I  cannot  breathe  one  other  sigh  to  move, 
Nor  can  entreat  one  other  sigh  to  fall  J** 

"Tis  a  vastly  pretty  rhyme,"  said  she,  "but,  Sir 
Peter,  your  Bohea  will  be  past  drinking." 

"Your  visitor?"  he  queried;  and  cup  and  saucer 
rattled  in  his  hand  as  he  took  it  from  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said  airily.  "My  lord  Damory,  mean 
you  ?  He  came  but  for  the  night,  you  know.  He's 
on  his  way  to  Bath  Hot-wells.  Is  your  tay  agreeable, 
Sir  Peter?" 

"Your  ladyship  hinted  he  might  remain." 

"He  did  not  remain,"  said  Lady  Barbara  firmly. 

She  sat  down  with  some  abruptness  in  her  armchair, 
and  looked  with  steady  eye  past  the  tremulous,  eager 
figure  of  her  elderly  lover  out  of  the  window. 

"He  did  not  remain,"  she  said. 

Sir  Peter  could  hardly  draw  a  breath,  so  uncertain 
was  he  whether  it  should  be  one  of  rapture  or 
agony.  ^ 

"Sit  down,"  said  Lady  Barbara  sharply,  "and 
drink  your  cup,  man." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  mood,  her  bright, 
handsome  face  softening  in  a  very  womanly  way,  she 
leant  over  to  him  and  laid  her  fingers  on  his  wrist. 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart         305 

"Sir  Peter,"  she  said,  "my  kind  friend,  I  have  been 
an  old  fool." 

Sir  Peter  was  so  startled  that  he  well  nigh  dropped 
the  delicate  china.  His  lean  frame  shook  violently 
as  he  first  laid  the  cup  carefully  out  of  his  reach  and 
then  turned  his  wrinkled  countenance,  grey  with  emo- 
tion, upon  Lady  Barbara.  Had  other  lips  but  hers 
spoken  such  blasphemy  .  .  . ! 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  nodding,  "  an  old  fool.  Here  have 
I  been  years  and  years  dreaming  about  Cousin  Dam- 
ory  and  the  time  when  we  were  young  folks  together, 
forgetting  that  as  the  years  and  the  years  go  by,  other 
things  go  by  too." 

"Other  things,  my  most  honoured  friend?" 

"Ay,  Sir  Peter !  Youth  and  looks,  man  !  Looks, 
beauty,  charm!" 

He  gave  a  groan  of  utter  repudiation  and  horror; 
and  she  laughed.  A  comfortable,  hearty  laugh  was 
hers,  even  though  it  held  just  then  a  little  quaver  in  it 
as  of  tears. 

"I  deny  it,"  said  Sir  Peter,  so  exceedingly  agitated 
that  the  powder  flew  in  scented  mists  about  his  head. 
"I  deny  it,  absolutely  and  totally." 

"Alack  !  I've  looked  in  the  mirror,  my  good  sir," 
said  the  lady ;  and  she  winked  sternly  as  she  spoke, 
for  there  was  a  moisture  in  her  blue  eyes  which  she 


3o6         The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

was  determined  they  should  not  shed.  "Cousin 
Damory  was  obliging  enough  to  hold  the  mirror  for 
me  last  night.  And  I  looked  in  .  .  .  and  I  saw  what 
I  was." 

"Your  Cousin  Damory,  ma'am!"  he  ejaculated, 
and  rose  jerkily  to  his  feet.  "Lady  Barbara,  I  have 
no  hesitation  in  saying  it,  with  all  due  respect  to  your 
ladyship's  family,  that  man  is  a  villain." 

"You  saw  how  I  prinked  myself  out  for  him  last 
night.  Mallay  and  I  and  the  maids  thought  I  made 
a  vastly  fine  show.  'Twas  my  birthday  brocade, 
and  had  been  thought  to  become  me."  She  cast  a 
somewhat  wistful  glance  at  him. 

"You  were  —  you  were  adorable!"   said  he. 

"Cousin  Damory,"  she  began  again,  "Cousin 
Damory,  my  excellent  friend,  has,  it  seems,  an  empty 
exchequer.  He  was  good  enough  to  remember  some 
early  passages  of  tenderness  between  us,  with  the 
view  of  replenishing  the  said  exchequer  from  the  good 
estates  of  Ogle  Hall  —  unfortunately.  Cousin  Damory 
also  found  my  wine  vastly  to  his  liking,  and  you 
learned  gentlemen  have  a  proverb,  I  believe,  in  the 
Latin,  *In  Vino  Veritas.'" 

Sir  Peter  could  not  speak.  He  was  hanging  on  her 
words  as  if  each  of  them  were  as  the  breath  of  life 
to  him.    His  quivering  hands  hovered  in  the  air. 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart         307 

"Well,"  said  the  lady,  "'twas  well  enough  at  first. 
But  O,  Sir  Peter,  how  is  my  poor  cousin  changed ! 
Heavens  !  how  coarse  hath  he  grown ;  how  red  in  the 
face,  how  bulky  in  the  figure  !" 

The  old  scholar's  innocent  grey  eyes  swept  his 
own  attenuated  limbs  with  quick  complacency,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  the  yesternoon  he  smiled. 

"  'Twas  but  now  and  again  that  by  a  look,  a  ges- 
ture, I  could  trace  the  handsome  youth  I  had  loved." 

Sir  Peter's  smile  faded. 

"All  went  well  enough  at  supper.  My  lord  was 
good  enough  to  praise  the  provender.  But  when  I 
retired,  leaving  him  with  the  young  man,  his  secre- 
tary, who  travels  with  him,  it  was  then,  O  Sir  Peter, 
that  my  eyes  were  opened  !" 

"Then?"  echoed  Sir  Peter  breathlessly. 

"Then,"  said  Lady  Barbara.  "Hearing  that  two 
or  three  more  bottles  of  wine  had  been  sent  for  in 
succession,  and  that  my  lord's  voice  was  waxing  very 
loud,  I  —  I  — "  she  hesitated,  and  lifting  the  hem  of 
her  purple  and  black-flowered  apron,  pleated  it  be- 
tween her  white  fingers. 

"  You  —  you  overheard  ?  "  faltered  Sir  Peter. 

The  lady  dropped  her  apron,  smoothed  it  firmly 
over  her  knee,  and  looked  up  at  the  anxious  face  that 
was  bent  over  her. 


3o8         The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

"Sir  Peter,"  she  said,  "I  listened.  And  a  very 
fortunate  thing  it  was,  too,"  she  proceeded  briskly. 
"For,  if  it  hurt  my  pride,  it  saved  my  pocket.  And 
something  else,  too :  my  self-respect.  ...  '  What 
d'ye  think  of  my  Coz?'  Lord  Damory  says,  bawling 
to  his  young  man.  'Ye'd  never  believe,  Jenkins, 
that  that  old  woman  was  once  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Hampshire ! ' " 

"Oh !  oh  !"  cried  Sir  Peter,  as  if  in  pain.  "The 
drunken  ruffian,  madam,  knew  not  what  he  said." 

"Nay,"  she  made  answer.  "The  wine  but  loosed 
his  tongue.  Not  indeed  that  I  am  one  who  would  cast 
shame  to  a  gentleman  for  an  extra  bottle  of  an  even- 
ing. 'Tis  gentlemen's  way,  I  know,"  said  the  widow, 
v^^ith  a  sigh  of  leniency  to  the  convivial  ghost  of  the 
departed  squire.  "But  cousin  Damory  was  a  trifle 
indiscreet  in  his  cups,  as  you  will  hear.  '  I  remember 
her,'  he  shouts,  'as  slender  as  a  willow  wand.  I 
could  compass  her  waist  with  my  hand'  (we  were 
cousins,  you  must  mind.  Sir  Peter).  'Lord!'  says 
he,  'she's  run  to  fat'  (excuse  that  I  should  repeat  his 
coarseness).  'I'll  have  to  take  both  arms  to  her,' 
he  says." 

Sir  Peter  Coverdale  clasped  his  hands  and  wrung 
them  in  the  extremity  of  his  emotion.  "Oh  !"  cried 
he.     "  Oh !   madam,  how  is  it  possible  that  anyone 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart         309 

could  be  so  brutish,  so  afflicted  by  Heaven  with  crass 
stupidity,  to  behold  without  awe  and  admiration 
those  noble,  those  majestic,  those  goddess-like  pro- 
portions, before  which  the  immature  charms  of  girl- 
hood, however  beautiful,"  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
heart  and  bowed,  as  if  to  some  sweet  vision  of  Lady 
Barbara's  youth,  "must  sink  into  utter  insignifi- 
cance, as  the  lesser  nymphs  before  Juno  herself." 

"Why,  why!"  laughed  the  lady,  and  her  laugh 
rang  without  any  hint  of  tears  this  time.  "Only 
that  my  vanity  was  so  well  disposed  of  last  night.  Sir 
Peter,  I  vow  you'd  make  me  vain.  But  hark  to  this : 
'Did  you  see  her  double  chin?'  asked  his  lordship, 
'and,  plump  as  she  is,  the  wrinkles  about  her  eyes? 
But,  Gad,  she  wags  her  curls  and  ogles  one  as  if  she 
were  half  her  age.  The  widow  Ogle,'  says  he,  "tis 
a  proper  name  !'  " 

"Tell  me  no  more,"  ejaculated  Sir  Peter,  lifting  up 
both  his  hands  sternly;  his  fine  old  "face  was  flushed 
to  his  powdered  hair.  "It  —  it  upsets  me,  ma'am. 
I — I  can't  bear  it.  Wrinkles!  Dare  the  sacrilegious 
miscreant  so  allude  to  those  lines  which  kindly  mirth 
and  tender  sympathy  for  others  have  writ  around 
your  beautiful  orbs?  If  I  could  describe  to  you, 
Lady  Barbara,  how  infinitely  I  consider  they  increase 
the  charm  of  your  countenance,  I  fear  you  might 


3IO  The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart 

chide  me  for  ofifending  that  exquisite  modesty  which, 
like  a  veil  of  gossamer,  softens  but  cannot  conceal  the 
brightness  of  your  other  virtues." 

Lady  Barbara  smiled,  but  by  reason  no  doubt  of 
the  modesty  so  belauded  by  her  adorer,  proceeded 
as  if  she  had  not  heard. 

"  *  But  she's  rich,'  his  lordship  was  good  enough  to 
add.  'So,  Jenkins,  we'll  swallow  her,  fat  and  all, 
and  she'll  do  better  than  a  young  one,  for  I'll  not 
have  to  stay  at  home  and  keep  the  sparks  away.'" 

Slowly,  for  elasticity  of  action  had  long  departed 
from  him,  and  he  was  much  shaken  by  emotion, 
Sir  Peter  went  down  upon  his  knees  before  Lady 
Barbara. 

"Most  beloved  and  more  lovely  lady,"  said  he, 
"yonder  depraved  and  besotted  idiot  held  no  mir- 
ror at  all  for  your  gaze,  but  rather  the  stagnant 
pool  of  his  own  evil  soul,  into  which  your  divine  eyes 
should  never  have  looked.  Look  now  into  the  mirror 
of  my  faithful  heart  and  behold  yourself,  yourself 
in  beauty,  which  age  cannot  touch,  which  my  poor 
words  can  never  express. 

"5y  Jjrve's  religion,  I  must  here  confess  it, 
The  most  I  love  when  I  the  least  express  it," 

quoted  Sir  Peter  from  his  favourite  poet. 

"Oh!    Sir    Peter,    Sir    Peter,"    said    the    lady, 


The  Mirror  of  the  Faithful  Heart        311 

laughing  and  crying  together,  and  holding  out  both 
her  hands.  Sir  Peter  took  them,  hardly  daring  to 
believe  the  fact,  into  his. 

"Cousin  Damory  offered  me  his  coronet  this  morn- 
ing," said  Lady  Barbara,  with  apparent  irrelevance, 
after  a  pause.  "And  thereafter,  I  fear,  he  departed 
somewhat  hurriedly." 

Sir  Peter  could  not  speak,  but  he  kissed  the  white 
hands,  one  after  another. 

"Have  you  any  objection  to  my  lips.  Sir  Peter?" 
said  Lady  Barbara. 

She  was  a  downright  dame;  and,  young  as  she 
was  still  fain  to  believe  herself,  with  Sir  Peter  she 
could  afford  to  waste  no  more  time  on  shilly-shally. 


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Arcthusa 

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The  Convert 

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